


The One That Got Away

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Acting, Actors, Actresses - Freeform, F/M, Friendship, Romance, Shakespeare, Shakespearebatch, Sisters, The Taming of the Shrew, Theatre, Theatrebatch, Unrequited Love, sibling relationsip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:26:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An actress making her name for herself on the London stage, Virgilia (Vicki) Gordon vows not to follow her usual pattern:  falling in love with her leading man.  The work comes first and foremost--or so she plans.  She never expects to develop feelings for her co-star in "The Taming of the Shrew", but with his stellar talent matched by his charm, kindness and intellect, Vicki learns all too soon that, despite one's best intentions, the heart goes where it will.  Still, all might be well--but he is far from free enough to return her affections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dust To Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845923) by [Cinderella1181](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderella1181/pseuds/Cinderella1181). 



> This story was inspired by "Dust To Dust", a one-shot written for me as a prize in a Tumblr giveaway, by Cinderella1181. A tale of unrequited love (or at least unrequitable), the characters and story were so rich and appealing, and rife with such potential, that I couldn't stop thinking about it, and found myself filling in what came before, and what I hope to see happen for Vicki (and Benedict) down the road. In short, it spurred me to write with a passion that forced many of my other story ideas to the back burner! And now, thanks to Cinderella1181's generosity and guidance, I am able to bring their story to light.
> 
> Please do go read her story...and her other works as well! She writes romance with humor and wisdom, creating character depth with such economy and wit that I am constantly amazed, and painting beautiful pictures with far less 'brush strokes' than I can ever manage. I remain humbled and grateful that she is indulging my passion to continue this tale.
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this to her, for allowing me this opportunity to proceed with characters and situations she created, and for the chance to learn and practice better discipline as a writer, with the especial lesson that sometimes one has to put aside the lovely words one thinks they've written, in favor of doing what is best for the Story. I'll try not to stray too far from her original intent for the unhappy couple......but let's see where the story takes us, shall we?

She kept telling herself she only had to hold it together for four more nights.  Four more excruciating nights.  She’d finally stumbled to her bed from her tear-stained kitchen floor, able to fall asleep at last only out of sheer exhaustion.  She dreaded to think what she would look like when she arose, but at least there was stage make-up to cover the worst of the puffed eyes and dark circles that would give her away to the world.  Of course, _he_ would see and _he_ would know, even if everyone around them remained oblivious.  Vicki swore if she saw pity in his eyes when next they met, she would likely melt into the floorboards out of sheer humiliation.    

But then she realized, Phe would notice her appearance and emotional state as well, and then she’d have to answer the inevitable questions, asked out of love and concern surely, but burdensome questions all the same. Vicki decided to tell her sister that any answers must simply wait; it was far too much to deal with until after _Shrew_ closed.  She might even allow herself to collapse in the comfort of Phe’s arms when the stiff upper lip was no longer required.  For now, she’d be functioning moment to moment—at least until she hit the boards, for she knew that there would be solace of a sort in falling into Kate for those few hours. 

Eventually, Vicki forced herself to eat for the sake of performing, and downed a double dose of aspirin in hopes it would kill the throbbing headache that had greeted her when she’d awoken mid-afternoon.  She grimly wished there was a pill to dull the heartache that was firmly seated in her chest; but even if there was, she knew the pain would reawaken once she laid eyes upon Benedict.  It was inescapable.

And so she played the part of carefree wil’o’the’wisp as gaily as she could manage, hiding the pain as best she could, going through the motions of conversing with cast mates as they got into make-up and costume.  She listened to the excited chatter about the closing night party, praying all the while that she could find a way to avoid that tradition altogether.  She couldn’t think of a convenient excuse just yet; her mind was still so muddled from the night before, but Vicki hoped one would come to her in time.

Actors are creatures of habit, conforming to little rituals they set for themselves, all part of the process of slipping their own skin and becoming the character.  Tonight it was her comfort and a bulwark as well.  Peeling away her 21st century trappings, pinning her hair up, donning the wig and corset, the hose and the petticoats—all these things moved her away from her painful reality, distancing her for a time from the gaping hole in her heart.  But only until the moment her path crossed with Benedict’s in the green room.

And _there_ he was, devastatingly handsome as ever in his white “hero” shirt and blue doublet (not quite the blue of his eyes, but then that was a blue to which there was _no_ compare).  His Petruchio was swarthy and physically intimidating—Benedict had carefully maintained his summer tan to augment the base of his make-up, and the tempting muscles that flexed beneath his costume were courtesy of a dedicated exercise regimen.  His thick, auburn hair was long enough to allow a glory of curls (try as she might, Vicki could never quite ignore the memory of how it had felt to thread her fingers through them, as his lips had wandered her skin that isolated night when they had given into the attraction that had been there from the first).  The total effect never failed to inspire a hint of lust in her Kate—and a deeper longing in her own, private heart.  Before, it had been okay to let herself feel these things, as she and Benedict had left open the door of possibilities for themselves (though they’d rarely spoken of it since); and it _was_ justified for Kate to feel these things after all.  But now?  Now it was close to the torment of Tantalus for her.  She dare'n’t approach him as she usually did, for the flirtatious banter they had come to practice nightly, between their characters.  It would be too much to bear.

He looked subdued tonight, preoccupied as he spoke with those around him, although Vicki saw clearly that his attention was trained upon her.  He seemed to be drawn in orbit around her, but she avoided direct contact at all cost, for the times their eyes met had already nearly overwhelmed her, and if he should actually speak to her, she feared she’d lose her grip altogether.  Instead, she fled as swiftly as she could, seeking the haven of her dressing room to await the call to places.

This was to be their new pattern over the remaining nights.  Vicki avoided Benedict at every turn, seeing him seek her out but denying him any chance of speaking to her.  But in performance?  Oh in performance!  Every moment between them was heightened; every time he had to touch her, she feared she would break down, making a fool of herself in this most public setting; but somehow she managed to keep it together.

Together and more--for she channeled all of her sorrow, all of her frustrated passions, into performance, imbuing her Kate with the steeliest fire yet.  And consummate Actor that he was, Benedict played off her perfectly.  Vicki was certain that their previous run of performances were shadows by comparison to how they played their roles as the end approached.

Each night, that closing kiss got more difficult to break away from; each night, it felt like he was kissing her as though his life depended on it, as though he’d be happy to drown in her if she would only let him.  Vicki would not deny herself the sweet agony of it, not for all the safe but tepid kisses that might find her in the future.  She woke the morning of closing night and found bruises on her skin from the night before, when he had gripped her too tightly in his silent desperation.  She had wept uncontrollably upon this discovery because, come next morning’s light, they would be all that she had left of him in her solitude-–and even those would eventually fade, as surely as whatever feelings he had for her _must_ , once time and distance stood between them.

This was the morning after Benedict had finally managed to catch her alone.  He’d been absent from the green room, and Vicki had been relieved to not have to rush away for once-–but then she’d found him waiting for her outside her dressing room.  He was leaning against the wall, doublet unlaced, head down, eyes closed and seeming lost in thought; the picture of a man dejected.  It made her want to throw her arms around him and pepper his skin with kisses, and soak up the good, manly warmth of him like marrow for her bones--for she’d been feeling the autumn chill more acutely than ever in her life, since the night her heart had broken.  Instead, she laid a tentative hand upon his arm, making him stir to face her.  The sadness in his eyes was the very echo of her own. 

Vicki simply shook her head, but of course that wasn’t enough; he’d been waiting and he needed to have his say.

“You said your heart was breaking,” he said quietly, “and mine broke just the same.  You know that, don’t you?”  The dim lighting of the hallway cast a somber shadow on his features.  She could feel the tears starting to well up again, and closed her eyes against them, bowing her head while trying to shake them off. 

“Is this how it’s to be, then,” he continued, “Not even the mercy of a single word or two to soften the blow?”

Vicki breathed deeply, mustering her reply, raising her head regally, “For now, anyway.  It’s the best I can manage right now, Ben.  Surely you see that?”

He nodded back, seeming a little calmer, a minute twitch of his cheek giving just the hint of a sad smile; one of the dozens of things that she found so dear about him, and completely irresistible.  He cleared his throat, then pursed his lips, “I see that you’re hurting and careworn.  I see that you’re building a wall against me, so that even the promise of friendship will be beyond us soon.”  The pain in his voice held her rapt, “I see your beautiful light dimmed, and it kills me to know I can’t make it right.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” she said, failing to keep the bitterness from creeping into her voice.  “You have…more important things on your plate these days.”  Vicki softened her tone, realizing he was hurting as much as she was, and wishing to set him at ease.  “We’ll both of us survive this.”  She tried to smile for his sake, to lighten the mood, “And the show must go on, after all, mustn’t it?”

Benedict scoffed softly, “It does.  No matter what we want the most, or how we feel, it does.”  He sighed hard, “Just…Vicki, you don’t have to do this.  Cut me off like this, when we’ve so little time left together…”

As it had been so often in her life, Vicki had to be the wise one.  The cautious one.  The one to make the difficult choices, to say those things that needed saying, and to bear the burdens others shirked.  But it had _never_ been this brutally painful or as unfair as at this moment.  Yet Vicki knew she couldn’t backtrack from the stand she had taken, no matter how she longed to simply cleave to him.  To lean on him entirely and let him lead her where her heart ached to go.

“There’s no ‘together’ for us, darling Ben,” she declared, not trying this time to hide her sorrow, “That was a fantasy that neither of us can afford to indulge in anymore.”  She closed her eyes, then turned to the door, knowing she would weaken if she continued to see the grief writ on his face.  And knowing as well, that a lifetime of regret and loneliness was the only reward that awaited her on the other side.

Vicki left him standing mutely, as she closed the door behind her.  Once safely inside her dressing room, she rested against the solid wood door, trembling all over, her heart racing and her blood pounding in her ears, questioning whether she had the strength left in her to get through these last two nights. To do so would be the finest performance of her life—but one that would earn her no ovations, let alone a critic’s notice.

Despite the pain like an arrow lodged in her chest, Vicki knew it was her nature to rise to the challenge.  It was the closing act of a play she hadn’t anticipated, but she would see it through with all the grace that she could marshal.  And she knew Benedict well enough to know he would do exactly the same.  Such a likely pair they had been, and if not for a sudden plot twist, they might have been blissfully happy together.

But life, like art, promises no happy endings. And as bright as any opening act may be—as bright as the June morning of that first rehearsal, as brilliant and winning as the boyish, charming and disarming smile with which he’d greeted her that first day—Fate really did have other plans for them. 

 


	2. first read through

At long last, Virgilia Gordon had reached the point in her career when her work was her best calling card, eliminating almost altogether the need to audition. If anything, there was the occasional private read with potential cast mates to be sure _they_ were a good fit with _her_ , but she had also attained the rarified atmosphere where moved the most accomplished and talented of her profession, so at times even that was unnecessary. Such was the case with this production—and she would have the distinct honor of playing Shakespeare’s Katerina Minola opposite the formidable talent of the man who seemed to be everywhere these days.

Vicki—as she was known both professionally and to her nearest and dearest--already had the good fortune to have seen the man at work in person, when he appeared in the National Theatre production of _Frankenstein_ —as the Creature and as the Doctor—and she had found both performances exceptional _and_ riveting. Though she had never been formally introduced to him, their paths had crossed several times at various theatrical events and soirées, and those brief glimpses had left her with the impression of an intelligent, well-mannered gentleman—with his obvious talent speaking for itself. His reputation was impeccable and from all that she’d heard of him within the theatre community, she was impressed with his work ethic—one she felt certain was very close to her own. When her agent contacted her with the offer of _The Taming of the Shrew_ , she agreed the moment Benedict’s name was mentioned. Such a fantastic opportunity was not to be missed, and she cared very little for the terms of the contract, leaving Camden & Co. to work out the details; frankly, she would have worked for scale,if that was what it took to land her the role.  

She had made it her habit in the past several years, to arrive early for first read through. Quite early; early enough to usually be the first cast member on the scene. She liked to quietly observe these people with whom she’d be spending so much of her time in the months to come, getting a sense of their rhythms and spontaneity, their humor and manner of dealing with one another, and most importantly, the seriousness with which they approached the work. As she always demanded the best of herself, Vicki had very little patience for those who delivered less than their best. She was fairly certain Benedict’s involvement would mean only the best were brought to bear.

And thus she watched them unobtrusively, taking her place at table, paging through her script, jotting brief notes in the margins (or at least, giving the _impression_ of making notations; in reality, she did most of that work in the weeks leading up to first read). Sipping her current favorite beverage--iced vanilla caramel macchiato--taking peeks at each new arrival, acknowledging those familiar to her with a warm smile and nod, Vicki maintained an air of studiousness in the midst of the frivolity of the actors greeting one another all around her. This had a tendency to draw people to her for quick little chats and friendly catching up (which, she admitted to herself, appealed to her vanity a bit). Above all—for those who did not know her yet—she hoped to convey a seriousness of purpose about the work, which she so dedicatedly required of herself, and expected of her cast mates.

Not that she didn’t enjoy the banter and play that resulted naturally from filling a room with that special breed—artists and actors that embodied wit, charm, confident egos, and the hallmark of their type, easy flirtatiousness. Vicki knew herself to be of equal measure, more than willing to play the coquette when time and occasion allowed, but never to the detriment of the work. The work came above all else; the work was her life’s blood.

It was the commotion at the far end of the room that alerted her to the arrival of her counterpart. Benedict and his companion—a stunning, willowy, honey blonde—were caught among a knot of enthusiastic cast mates. That would be Viola Scott, Vicki surmised; the other half of London’s latest, most glittering couple. She was a vision of the ideal ingénue, her tinkling laugh carrying clearly across the room. Vicki could tell within moments that Viola was accustomed to being the center of attention in any given crowd, and with good reason: she was simply lovely and graceful, and glowing with youth and good humor. In short, the perfect choice for Bianca, and an obvious heavenly foil to her own spirited, clever, but ill-tempered Kate.

Vicki watched, amused and wearing a small knowing smile, recalling the days when she had found herself the center of such attention, carrying on in so similar a fashion. Young, fresh-faced, and poised on the brink of possibilities, it had been an exciting time as she had made her way steadily from fringe productions to her eventual West End debut, taking whatever role offered for both experience and exposure, and building a name and sterling reputation for herself. But it had been the work itself that had made her the happiest, enabling her to hone her skills while learning whatever she could from so many others more versed in their craft. As Vicki observed the younger woman, she wondered—and hoped in a small way--if it was the same for Viola.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that the girl had hitched her star to one of the leading lights of the British stage, but Vicki was sure he was discerning enough not to be involved romantically with someone who was only using him to further her career. Benedict Cumberbatch set the standard for anyone lucky enough to work with him, so Vicki’s hunch was strong that he’d prefer a partner with plenty of smarts and talent in her own right.

With their entrance in the hall, it appeared that most of the cast had arrived, and the room was filled with lots of chatter and good natured laughter. Vicki spotted their director, Peter Davies, in close conversation with theatre’s Artistic Director, Bridget Nelson, and her assistant. As they moved to take their seats, the cast took their cue and followed suit, finding their designated places at table and settling in for the day’s work. Seating was arranged with the principles at the head of the table, so that Benedict and Viola had their places to Vicki’s right. Viola gave him a peck on the cheek before he pushed her chair in; he then turned to Vicki.

She had been ready to introduce herself, ready with a gracious smile and greeting, but Benedict was quicker, “Ms. Gordon, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She shook his proffered hand; his grasp was light but warm, and he held on while he continued, “I’ve been a fan of your work for quite a while now. I thought your Titania was wonderfully ethereal…”

Vicki felt a bit of colour rise in her cheeks, entirely taken by surprise, for she hadn’t expected him to begin so effusively, “…and your Rosalind was nothing short of brilliant.” His smile was completely sincere, warming his face and lighting his eyes in such a way that Vicki understood his reputation as a charmer was well-earned.

She was swift to recover though, meeting his compliments with equal, easy grace, leaving her hand tucked in his, “Thank you…and it’s Vicki, please,” she told him lightly, “But you flatter me too much, Sir.” She shook her head, smiling back, “I fear you’ll be disappointed when I don’t meet the dazzling standard you may expect.”

He pulled out the chair beside hers, taking his seat, “To be honest,” he said, leaning close to be confidential, “I find I’ve been overrated myself, more often than not, so I understand about inflated expectations.” He chuckled quietly, looking wry and boyish, “But perhaps between the two of us, we’ll manage to surprise even ourselves?”

“Let’s hope so, shall we then?” she laughed back, “In the meantime, we’ll just have to fake it convincingly until we get it right.”

Benedict raised a brow and winked mischievously, making her feel a compatriot already, with such a silly secret between them. Vicki turned her attention to Nelson--speaking a preface to the director’s remarks—as she smiled still at Benedict’s comments and demeanor. If he had meant to relax her, he had succeeded--swimmingly…

* * *

One of Vicki’s first auditions after leaving university had been for an off-West End production of _A Lion in Winter_. It was the first of a handful of times in her career when she had found an instant rapport and easy rhythm with the complete stranger with whom she’d been paired to read; such moments always made the exercise of her craft all the more satisfying. He’d been an older actor, of prime age to play Henry Plantagenet, while she had been reading for the part of Alais Capet, the king’s young mistress. The chemistry and energy she’d felt with him during that single, cold reading was immediate and vital—and they had fed off one another so well that she hadn’t even had to _try_ to call up the tears for the heartbreak she needed to portray.

Vicki had left the rehearsal hall that day flush with satisfaction over what she felt was her best audition ever—and certain that both she and her older partner were shoe-ins for the roles. Instead, she’d been devastated to learn she wasn’t cast, not even receiving a callback. That had been a very rough lesson for her, making her question her instincts for a time, and if she truly had the stuff to pursue an acting career.

But there was eventual vindication for her; attending a performance of the play, in the company of several friends, Vicki discovered a mediocre production featuring wooden performances by most of the actors, including those cast in the roles of the king ( _not_ played by her audition partner) and his lover. It was quite apparent that the director had made a series of poor choices, and not just regarding the cast. This was more than a comfort; it was an immense relief—confirmed by like reactions to the play by others in her party. It left her glad that she was not a part of that debacle of a production, and went a long way towards restoring her confidence in her instincts and judgement. Still, there remained some small regret for the lost opportunity of working with that actor, and their paths were never to cross again.

So here she was today, and it was like the _Lion_ audition all over again. No surprise to her that Benedict was just that good; the best, in fact, she’d ever had the privilege of reading with.   With no apparent effort, he was already making her raise her game, and that had to bode well for the weeks of rehearsals ahead.

This initial reading seemed to have flown right through the first two acts with ease, arriving swiftly at the first meeting between Petruchio and Kate. Their reading of the much anticipated, rapid fire contest of wits and wills drew quiet laughter from many seated around the table, and a small round of appreciative applause at its conclusion. Vicki couldn’t have been more pleased.

The stage manager called for a break before they took up Act III, allowing time for everyone to stretch their legs a bit, and grab a quick snack from the modest refreshment table. She had decided on a plump orange, about to pluck it from its basket of plenty, when Benedict came up beside her. “I like what you’re doing vocally,” he told her casually, “I think it’s really going to suit your Kate.” He reached past her to grab a piece of fruit from the pile, smiling crookedly and winking at her again, before taking a big bite from his apple. Vicki only had time to smile back, wholly bemused by his comment, before he’d passed along his way.

It was true; she had decided on a lower timbre for her Kate, a smoky sort of voice that would contrast well with the guilessness that was the typical choice for actresses playing Bianca. That he’d picked up on it was a pleasant development, but left her a little perplexed—for too often compliments in their profession came with ulterior motives or hidden agendas. Yet Benedict seemed entirely sincere, and Vicki could think of no reason he might have to shine her on. She watched him across the room, a little fascinated as he conversed closely with the actor playing Baptista; from their body language, they appeared to know each other, and in a very short time both men were laughing at something Benedict had said. The warmth of his laughter carried easily across to her, and was…infectious was the best way to describe it, she supposed. The man is definitely a charmer, she thought, but he’s genuine about it, unlike so many lesser talents she had encountered over the years.

As though he could hear her thoughts, Benedict looked over at her; caught in the act of contemplating him, Vicki felt a blush of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. But when he nodded her an acknowledgement, and smiled broadly, her feeling of self-consciousness faded as quickly as it had come upon her. ‘ _Such a sly fellow_ ’, she whispered to herself in amazement, unable to suppress a smile; ‘ _oh my, this_ is _going to be fun_ ’ was her next thought. And her last? Before she lowered her eyes and gathered her wits to head back to the rehearsal table, Vicki concluded to herself, with a fleeting flutter of excited anticipation warming her nicely, ‘ _this one is_ _absolutely_ _going to keep me on my toes_ ’.  

_(to be continued)_


	3. week three

Vicki pulled her slap at the last moment, just shy of connecting, but close enough to make it look realistic, and Benedict whipped his head to the left to complete the gag. She raised her upstage hand as though to smack his other cheek, but he caught that wrist smoothly, smiling a little ruthlessly into her upturned face, “I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again.”

“So may you _lose_ your arms,” she hissed, drawing herself taller with Kate’s indignation, and warning Petruchio, “If you strike me you are no gentleman, and if no gentleman, why then no arms.” He released her wrist, and she took two steps back from him, rubbing where his fingers had found purchase, as though his Petruchio had gripped her too tightly. They held each other’s gaze, their characters taking one anothers measure.

“That’s brilliant,” director Davies called from the pit, “That’s _exactly_ what I’m looking for. We need to feel the sizzle between them.” He came to the edge of the stage, smacking the boards lightly for emphasis, “ _This_ is what I want from you…and don’t be afraid to go even farther with it.”

Vicki started downstage, about to respond when Davies turned to the assistant director who had had just come up beside him; he leaned close to her while she gestured for him to look at the display on her tablet. “Hold a moment, please,” he told the actors, quickly distracted by the matter at hand, “Give me a couple minutes, then we’ll run it again.”

She turned back to Benedict and shrugged, disappointed at the ill-timed interruption when they had been quite ready to continue to the end of their scene. He nodded in silent agreement, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet. When Vicki rejoined him upstage, he tilted his head towards her and quipped softly, “Once more with feeling then, shall we?”

She batted her eyes innocently, “Do behave now, Ben. I’m sure it’s something entirely vital.”

“To be sure,” he replied, his good humor clear in his quirky little smile. Vicki bit her lip against laughing aloud, raising a brow his way.

“But seriously,” he continued, glancing downstage before looking back to her, his voice grown less playful, “That wasn’t too rough, was it?” He took her hand, checking her wrist to be sure he hadn’t bruised her. “Be honest, now,” he prompted her gently, “I know sometimes I can get a little…fierce…”

“Oh, god no, you’re fine,” she answered with a little laugh, “Besides, I…um…I _like_ fierce.” Vicki sighed and inclined her head diffidently, enjoying the air of mild flirtation between them. “And Kate…well…” she paused a moment, took a shuddering breath and told him, “She’ll be only too happy give back in kind what she gets.”

Benedict’s voice was silky in reply, “Oh really? I’ll have to keep that in mind.” His eyes widened suggestively, and--not for the first time--Vicki reminded herself that, despite the humorous invitation there, she should tread with better prudence. She freed her hand from his—missing the warmth of his gentle grasp at once, but schooling her expression so he wouldn’t take note. That was the finest of lines, and she daren’t cross it.

Seven weeks rehearsals. Three weeks previews. Twelve week run. And everything was moving along splendidly. The early promise of that first read through had come to a remarkably easy fruition. She had known from the start that this project was going to be professionally fulfilling. What she hadn’t counted on was that it was going to be this much _fun_. And downright invigorating; so much so that there were days Vicki regretted having to leave the rehearsal hall when evening rolled around.

How fortunate, she reflected, that she and her co-star had quickly developed a playful rhythm between them, an intuitive sort of give and take, usually picking up without a hitch, upon any change in one anothers line readings and responding in kind. It was no surprise—she had expected no less of him—but she had done her share of productions when this was not the case, so she valued Benedict’s ease and generosity all the more. In fact, Vicki could not recall experiencing such an instant, effortless onstage connection, and knew it was well-reflected in the work they were doing.

Vicki prided herself on her memorization skills, which she had worked to develop with religious dedication, during her early years at university; by the end of the second week of rehearsals, she had fairly shed the script from her hands--with only the occasional call for ‘line’—enabling her to focus more on the physical comedy. Impressively, Benedict had matched that feat within a couple of rehearsals, further proof they were an ideal theatrical match in nearly every respect.

That affinity had translated offstage as well, and the seeds of a quiet friendship had taken root—an unexpected perk that left her doubly glad she hadn’t hesitated in accepting the role. And there was always just that hint of harmless flirtation when he spoke with her, not uncommon in their world, but a subtle pleasure that kept their conversations lively, and her intellect…stimulated…

“Woolgathering again?” Benedict’s rich voice broke through reverie.

Vicki shook her head a little, smiling sheepishly, “Sorry…I was…” What could she tell him? Certainly not all that she’d been thinking. “I was running the rest of the scene through in my mind.” She sighed wistfully, “Are we ready to go on?”

He chuckled, sliding his hands into his pockets, tilting his head as he eyed her scrupulously, and squinting just enough to make Vicki wonder if he saw through her white lie. “Um…actually, uh…Peter decided we should break for lunch now, and start fresh later.” He continued watching her quizzically, “You really okay?”

She nodded, swift to reply, and liking the note of concern in his tone, “Yeah, I’m fantastic—and famished, actually.”

“Great,” he laughed, “I mean…lunch it is.” His smile was his most boyish, and naturally infectious, “I know a sweet little steakhouse on Denmark Street. Care to join me?”

Surprised, but pleased at his unexpected invitation, Vicki gave an enthusiastic ‘yes’—then thinking better of it, she had to ask, “Viola’s coming along, of course?” She felt it important to make that clear between them.

Benedict shook his head briskly, “Not today. She’s on a vegetarian kick and this place is about the farthest we can get from that.” Sensing Vicki’s hesitation, he asserted, “She won’t mind, you know. If that’s a concern for you.”

Concern, she thought. No. Not at all. This is perfectly innocent, she chided herself; just a couple of colleagues breaking bread, and nothing more. But why did she feel the pleasant flutter of butterflies at the thought of this outing; and why did she feel that she should temper the smile that came with her reply, with a bit of reserve?

“Not one bit,” she finally told him, noting the merry spark in his eyes. “I think it’s exactly what I need.” Deciding that her choice was for only the right reasons, Vicki told him blithely, “Just let me get my bag, and we can hit the road.”

* * *

The wait for a table was brief, as they arrived slightly ahead of the lunch rush, so they found themselves seated within ten minutes. The décor was industrial chic; dark wood paneling and brick, and the tables were rather crammed together to accommodate a maximum number of patrons. Their waitress, a perky young woman, arrived shortly.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted them cheerily, “I’m Julia, and I’ll be your server this afternoon. Can I start you folks off with a cocktail?” Her lines, of course, were recited by rote, but when she cast her eyes upon the gentleman at her table, she went suddenly silent, agog with surprise. Vicki--seldom on the receiving end of such recognition herself—looked on amused, and was soon impressed by the humor and patience Benedict demonstrated towards the young woman. He smiled warmly, addressing her by name, putting her quickly at ease as he ordered a Redchurch Pale Ale. They both turned to Vicki.

“Just some ice water with lemon, for now,” Vicki told her.

Julia nodded, now over the shock of finding a celebrity at her table, and listed the day’s specials for them, without a hitch. “Do you need a little time to decide?”

Vicki glanced to Benedict, who answered for the both of them, “Yeah, a few minutes more, thanks.”

The menu was actually quite short, featuring several types of steak and burgers, and less than a dozen side dishes. “I’m guessing you’ve been here before…” Vicki started, contemplating the selections.

“Not for ages, though,” he told her, sounding regretful, “Chance doesn’t present itself very often these days.”

Still perusing the menu, she asked casually, “So Viola…she’s really a vegetarian?” It wasn’t something Vicki had expected to hear.

Benedict sighed dolefully, as though the answer had tested his patience more than once, “Yeah. No meat. No diary,” he shook his head as he emphasized, “And good god, no gluten.”

Vicki looked up from her menu to see he had pulled a bit of sour face. “That doesn’t sound like any fun,” she said cautiously, “Doesn’t seem to leave a lot of room for you to indulge.”

Benedict grinned and wiggled his brows at her, “Which is _precisely_ why we’re here today.”

“Well shame on you, Ben,” she leaned closer to him across the table, t’sking softly, “Making me a party to your misbehavior.” She eyed him coyly, “I never would have guessed a nice, juicy steak would be your vice.”

He laughed, heartfelt and heartily, before dropping his voice conspiratorially, “It’s only one of many, I assure you.” He held his gaze upon her for a beat, his mouth set in a most playful smile, “But something tells me I can trust in your discretion.”

Vicki felt a little thrill of surprise at his look and his tone, and her impulse was to give a saucy answer back—but thinking better of it, she simply nodded and smiled, before turning back to her menu. His charm was certainly a challenge to her better judgement, and so silence, in this case, was her best defense against temptation.

* * *

She opted for a bistro filet, with salad and parmigiana aubergine, eventually ordering a half carafe of a black cherry negroamaro. “Although I really shouldn’t,” Vicki confided to him, as Julia collected their menus and headed to the bar to get the wine, “It’s bound to make me dozy this afternoon, but I can’t resist a nice bit of fruity red with a good steak.” After the first sip she felt obliged to warn him, “And I’m holding you personally responsible for any miscues that might come when we get back to rehearsal. I normally never take a drink midday while I’m working.”

In reply, Benedict simply smirked victoriously, lifting his glass and tilting it her way. “Stick with me kid,” in his best impersonation of Bogart, “and I’ll introduce you to only the best sorts of bad habits,” before drinking deeply. It would have sounded suggestive spoken by any other man, but she found his ready humor evidence enough of only respectable intentions.

Benedict ordered the flat iron steak—the restaurant’s signature dish—medium, with a side of cooked chips dripping with meat juices, and the aubergine, along with a second ale. Vicki enjoyed the gusto with which he relished his meal. Again, she was not surprised at all—for she was quickly learning it was his nature to approach all things head on and with full enthusiasm. She supposed it was part of what made him larger than life, and was very much part of his charm.

“Coffee or dessert?” Julia nimbly cleared away their empty plates and the wine carafe, while waiting upon their answer.

“Oh, I dunno if we have time,” Vicki told her, and then looked to Benedict for confirmation, “And I’m sure I couldn’t eat another bite if we do.”

“Au contraire,” he declared, taping his watch face, “According to this we’ve a half-hour left, at least.” Vicki drew a quick breath to contest his point, but he overrode her with a knowing grin, “And you  _know_ we never get started on time in the afternoon.” Benedict looked to their server, “Two coffees, please—and what’s up for dessert?”

Julia smiled in amusement and immediately reeled off the day’s special, “A salted caramel soft serve sundae, with your choice of hot Madagascan chocolate sauce, or vanilla bean and Maker’s Mark syrup.”

Benedict turned the full force of his exotic eyes on Vicki, making her shake her head adamantly. “No, Ben, I can’t…we can’t,” she stammered, “I mean we shouldn’t…” He held his thumb and forefinger up, with just a wee space between, finally resorting to the most exaggerated pout she’d seen on him yet. The man was exasperating—beautifully exasperating--and persuasive enough to chip away at her resolve.

She rolled her eyes at him, exhaled her frustration, and looked up at Julia, telling her pleasantly “Coffee  _only_ for me, thank you dear.” Vicki then glared at him across the table, trying not to crack a smile “And not another word from you.”

He raised both hands in a show of surrender, rocking back his chair and grinning broadly a moment, then settled back down. “But salted caramel,” he murmured contritely, “I know you like caramel.”

Vicki sighed, gentling her tone, “Ben. I’m flattered that you noticed.” And she was flattered—perhaps more than she should be. “But I’ve also got a fitting this afternoon, and this meal, as marvelous as it was—well, it’s already enough to get me in dutch with Agnes; my corset can only take so much strain, you know!”

Benedict chuckled, considering her quietly. “Alright,” he countered, “but promise me you’ll try it another day. Such a simple pleasure shouldn’t be so quickly passed by.” It felt to her like he was speaking of so much more than a sweet treat.

“Of course. I promise,” Vicki reached across the table and patted his hand, then quickly withdrew hers as the coffee and ice cream arrived.

Benedict lifted heaping spoonfuls to his mouth, rumbling his appreciation for the taste, as Vicki sipped her coffee. Scooping up the last of the ice cream, he broke the easy silence between them, “But for the record—about that corset?”

Vicki bowed her head and bit her lip, readying herself for the inevitable tease, “Yes, Ben?”

“There shouldn’t be any problem there.”

“Oh?” she replied with an arched brow, as she dared look back his way.

A shy, almost bashful look graced his face (which in retrospect, she could only see as evidence of his sincerity), “Because you’re perfectly lovely…just the way you are.”

* * *

They had a relatively quiet trip back to the _Apollo Victoria_ ; Vicki assumed that Benedict’s silence arose from being happily stuffed full. Her own silence was a mix of uncertainty and exhilaration over the kindness of his compliments to her. Common sense told her they were merely products of his gregarious nature, while the soft romantic in her kept insisting there was something more at play. And underlying all, there was excitement for the hours and days ahead and the creative process that lay in store. For the time being, she decided the less said, the better.

The majority of the cast was scattered in small groups throughout the house, waiting to begin—late, exactly as Benedict had predicted—so that their tardy arrival went mostly unmarked, to Vicki’s relief. He had ushered her through one of the doors at back of house, one hand pressed upon her upper back, whispering close, “See, we made it back in time, and none the wiser.”

She couldn’t resist the chance to tease him. “Do you _ever_ get tired of being right?” she whispered back.

“Never,” he chuckled, the sparkle in his eyes speaking eloquently of all the fun such little acts of misbehavior could bring. And he really did have the most remarkable eyes…

“Ben, darling!” Viola called, rushing up the aisle and straight into his arms. She pulled his face close for a lingering kiss. Vicki looked down, not at all comfortable with their affection so close at hand, and searching for the best way to slip away without notice.

The kiss broke, and Viola sighed deeply, looking dreamy—and very much in love. It brought a reality back to Vicki that forced her to see how foolish some of her earlier thoughts had been.

The younger woman turned her way, smiling genuinely, her natural grace unabated, “So he dragged you off to _Flat Iron_ , did he? He’s been gasping to get over there for a couple weeks now.” Viola looked back at Benedict, and rubbed her lipstick stain off of his lower lip, telling him indulgently, “Well, I’m glad you got that out of your system, darling.” She turned her attention back to Vicki, “And I hope it was worth the trip.”

Vicki smiled, despite the disappointment that was settling inside her chest, “It was. It really, really was. It was…” she drew a deep breath, thinking of all the ways she might describe it, knowing she couldn’t say them aloud, “…perfect, in fact.” Aiming to sound carefree, she went on lightly, “Best steak I’ve had in months.” She glanced at him briefly, “Thanks, Benedict.” Still entangled with Viola, he nodded an acknowledgement.

As she walked down the aisle and away from the loving couple, she could hear Viola chattering happily, and felt a sort of shame bloom inside for thinking, even briefly, that their outing had been anything but a casual lunch with a coworker. Yes--Benedict was kind; he was funny; he was smarter than almost every man she knew—but he was also very, very taken, and that was a fact that no amount of charm and witty flirtation could ever quite erase.

 

_(to be continued)_

 

 

 


	4. girls night out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking, dishing and candid conversation, forcing Vicki to a realization she'd been doing her best to avoid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing a new character, based on a genuis blogger of great wisdom & kindness, talented graphic artist & photographer, and all around bright light for her many devotees. Honestly, I don't think there's a challenge you can give her she doesn't meet with gusto & creativity. I'm in awe of her energy &the works she creates and shares on her blog, http://onebuttscratcher.tumblr.com/ (do go visit if you have a chance). I've been very lucky as she has created cover illustrations for several of my stories, my favorite of which is for this one ( http://onebuttscratcher.tumblr.com/post/129491115773/theres-no-together-for-us-darling-ben-she ). Darling Agnes, I humbly hope you like how "you" turned out! xoxox

_…deciding he’d had enough of their contentious banter, Petruchio’s manner became stern, plainly brooking no refusal:_

“…and therefore, setting all this chat aside,

Thus in plain terms. Your father hath consented

That you shall be my wife,your dowry ‘greed upon,

And will you, nill you, I _will_ marry you.”

_Kate opened her mouth, ready to protest, but his voice had grown low and husky as he moved in closer to her; closer and closer, as a realization seemed to dawn upon his face. ‘Twas that look that froze her in place, and her eyes widened at the surprising revelation she saw there. Is this even possible, she was thinking, for I have never been the subject of a man’s desire before. Nor have I ever wanted to be such. Yet surely by how he looks and sounds, it must be so, unlikely as it is…_

“Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn

For by this light, whereby I see your beauty—

Thy beauty that doth make me like you well—

Thou must be married to no man but me.”

 _Petruchio looked…well…a little hungry, and that made_ her _feel a little weak. Not even meaning to, she tilted her head back as he closed the space between them, unconsciously shutting her eyes and offering her lips to him as his mouth hovered close. Anticipating the most unexpected thing in her world—a man’s kiss upon her untested lips…a kiss that never comes; a kiss sadly interrupted—due to the entrance of her father and her sister’s irksome suitors._

_Kate opened her eyes at the sound of her father’s voice; Petruchio was closer than ever, watching the men draw near. Turning back to her, he sighed heavily, and spoke in an urgent stage whisper,_

“For I am he am born to tame you Kate,  
And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate  
Conformable as other household Kates.”

_With that, he backed away, readying a smile to greet her father. Petruchio’s grin appeared forced and almost cruel, confusing her; it made him look like he had only been mocking her after all. Was her worth to him defined then, only by her dowry? His next words seemed to say that this was so,_

“Here comes your father. Never make denial,  
I _must_ and _will_ have Katherine to my wife.”

_Had she actually wished that he would kiss her? Fie on that thought. He was an ass, his charm a sham. Kate would sooner kiss a porcupine than this man who sought to play her so falsely…_

Vicki’s attention had gone wandering again; hours and hours later, and she still couldn’t get the feel of that scene off her mind. It had certainly changed since the early days of rehearsal. There was a raw magnetism to Benedict’s Petruchio, and it seemed to be growing daily. Of course it worked beautifully and, in action, was the most natural of developments—and it was also forcing little changes upon her Kate that she had not foreseen when she had done her initial character analysis. She’d even told him so earlier, when they’d finished for the day. “Your Petruchio has got my Kate softening at her edges; unexpectedly really, but…I rather like how it rounds her out,” and his spontaneous quirk of a smile was all she needed to know it pleased himto hear so. But while her instincts told her these changes made her interpretation all the richer, she was starting to feel a little unsettled about how it seemed to be softening her as well—and at the palpable feel of electricity between them, even in their offstage interactions.

Still, the most vital of questions must remain unasked—could Benedict tell how he was beginning to affect Vicki, the actress, beyond the character she was playing…and was it possible that she was affecting him in that way too?

The sound of Phe’s laughter, followed by the chipper voice of their waitress, pulled Vicki from her musings. “Are you ladies ready for another round?”

Phe and Agnes—who had been engaged in an animated conversation across the table—were quick to answer yes. Vicki, realizing she had finished her drink, looked to the young woman, “Yes. Another of the same please.”

As the waitress headed off, Agnes drummed restless fingers on her nearly empty cocktail glass, asking drolly, “Remind me, Vicki—what is it that you’re drinking again?”

Vicki hesitated, squaring herself for the inevitable joshing that would follow.  " ‘ _A quick one before dinner’_ ,” she replied, smirking, “And honestly, I’ve rarely had better.”

“Not for lack of trying, sis,” Phe giggled, joining in the fun.

Agnes playfully doubled down, “And just where did you learn of such an exotic concoction, hmmmm?” They had covered this territory before, but Agnes—whose mischievous streak was always heightened when she was in her cups—was determined to have Vicki say it.

Fact was, Vicki liked to say it. No, not liked. _Loved_. For the almost universal reaction it engendered. And the taste of the champagne based cocktail suited her perfectly. It really had nothing to do with the man who had introduced it to her. Not that she would admit to--aloud, anyway.

At first glance, Agnes Gnaleyn appeared much younger than her years, a diminutive little dynamo with flawless porcelain skin, waifish, deep brown eyes, and long, dark tresses that could easily be the envy of most of the actresses she costumed. Vicki had liked her from the moment they had met over the sketches she’d created of Kate’s wardrobe. Agnes seemed—to most—to be subdued as she went about her work, but she had a sharp wit, and a common sense wisdom that came from quietly observing the behaviors and foibles of the creative personalities that made up the theatrical community.

Those merry, discerning eyes remained trained on Vicki, forcing an answer to her question. “You know who,” she replied, trying to sound blasé. Agnes pursed her lips, silently willing her to the key admission. With a sigh of resignation, Vicki admitted the last, in her quietest voice, “Ben.” She rolled her eyes at her own absurdity, “It was Ben…now can we please move on to more pertinent topics?”

Finally satisfied, Agnes nodded, and sat back. She lifted her cocktail glass in a small toast to Vicki, then drained the remainder of her chocolate martini.

“Ooo, you’re good, Agnes,” Phe snickered, “It would’ve taken me a lot more needling to get her to admit that.”

Vicki turned to her sister, good-natured despite delivering an admonishment, “That’ll be enough of that, young lady. I didn’t come out tonight to be made sport of, you know.”

“Bollocks,” Phe exclaimed, “I was sure that was at least half the reason you keep me around.”

“With the other half being my obligation, as your older and much _wiser_ sister, to keep you out of trouble.” Vicki turned to Agnes, admitting confidentially, “A losing battle, every step of the way, if you can imagine.”

Phe flashed a smug grin, “As if the pot could keep the kettle whistling its true tune. Especially since the best lessons I’ve had in misbehaving have come from you, sis.” She popped the cherry from her amaretto sour into her mouth, its symbolism more than clear, then patted Vicki’s arm, her tone turned a little penitent, “But I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Vicki smiled indulgently, “Nor I, you, Ophelia dear. You keep me on my toes, even at your best of times.”

Phe shrugged, looking pleased with herself, “All part of the services I so selflessly provide.”

Despite their often prickly repartee, Vicki counted herself lucky that her younger sister remained a nearly daily part of her life. Phe had seen her through some seriously rough spots over the years; the inevitable disappointments encountered as she sought to establish herself professionally; the heartaches over broken romances. And now that Vicki had reached a pinnacle of sorts in her career, she was finally able to pay Ophelia as the PA she had been for her for several years now—while continuing, she hoped, to give her sister gentle guidance to avoid some of the mistakes she’d made herself.

“Well hullo,” Phe murmured, then nudged Vicki. She raised her chin in the direction of the bar, and towards a group of men that had just arrived.

“Ooohhh,” Vicki replied, “Is that…”

“Yes,” Phe sighed, “Yes it is.” She was sitting a little straighter, eyes wide, while a sudden blush colored her cheeks.

“Derek…Sssss…Singer…right, Phe?” Vicki turned to Agnes, “Carpenter working on set construction.”

Agnes smiled knowingly, “Uh-huh--I recognize him,” she chuckled, “As does Phe, apparently.”

“Hmmmm?” Phe responded absentmindedly, her attention riveted on the man across the room from them. When he turned their way, Phe looked down, flummoxed and grasping her drink in both hands, “Crikey, I think he saw us…”

“That’s a good thing, dear,” Vicki told her calmly, “Now go over and talk to him.”

“No, I can’t…I, um, I shouldn’t…” Phe squeaked, “It’s girls night out, right?”

Vicki and Agnes consulted one another silently for a few moments, each wanting the younger woman to seize the opportunity for flirtation. Vicki drew an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes widely, “Go on now, Phe. He’s sneaking looks your way already. And he definitely looks interested.”

Although she still looked nervous, it seemed Vicki’s encouragement was the tonic needed to get Phe moving. Bracing herself, she finished her cocktail, then rose; she tossed her hair back and straightened the lines of her skirt, nodded at Vicki, and headed towards the bar.

Vicki watched Phe--who with each step appeared to gain confidence—declaring proudly, “That’s my girl. That young man doesn’t stand a _chance_ of resistance.”

The waitress soon arrived with their drinks, drawing their attention away from Phe’s little adventure. Vicki took a long taste, then set her glass down, “Mmmm, that’s good.” She wore a small, almost secret smile, as she recalled the evening Ben had introduced her to the cocktail; the joke he’d made of it, smooth and well-rehearsed from making such introductions to others in the past, but like the man himself, so winning, so very dear…

“He likes you, you know,” Agnes told her quietly, as though reading her thoughts.

Vicki flushed, yet pretended she didn’t understand; it would do no good to be so obvious. “Hmm? Derek? He’s a little young for me, and besides, I think he’s really interested in Phe.”

Not fooled a bit by Vicki’s feigned ignorance, Agnes told her confidently, “Benedict.” She paused, watching for her friend’s reaction, before adding, “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Aiming to sound cavalier, Vicki answered lightly, “And I like him.”

“No—he _likes_ you,” Agnes advised her patiently, but insistently, “He really, _really_ likes you.”

Vicki shook her head, adamant in denial, “Don’t be absurd…he’s with Viola. For a few years now. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“That may be,” Agnes asserted, “but things aren’t always what they appear.” She watched as Vicki turned her attention downward, silent and tracing a finger around the condensation on her glass. “I swear some people think that just because English isn’t my first language, that they can speak more freely when I’m in the room—or that I won’t get the cryptic comments they share with one another.” She huffed a laugh, then added, “You can’t imagine some of the things I’ve heard actresses discuss during fittings, or when I’m pinning up their hems, or giving notes to my assistants.” Agnes tsk’d meaningfully, “And oh the juicy gossip I’ve learned over the years—I could write a book. One so scandalous it would curl your toes!”

Vicki laughed despite herself; she had seen and heard enough such chitchat and rumors within the theatrical community throughout her career to know that Agnes’ claim was no hyperbole. She herself had prompted a good share of chin wagging in her day, specifically in the wake of a handful of foolish romantic indiscretions during her twenties—and she knew well how colorfully even simple facts became embellished with each retelling. This was a path Vicki would not—could not—allow her imagination to wander when it came to her costar. Even if the thought of a crack in the seemingly perfect relationship of the dream couple left her feeling a little…hmmm…buoyant.

Agnes appeared to have taken her laughter and ensuing silence as an invitation to elaborate; and although Vicki read no ill-intent or maliciousness in what her companion sought to reveal, she had to put a stop to it. It touched too closely upon secret wishes that had been deviling her for days and days; well, weeks really, if she was honest with herself. Out of respect for Benedict _and_ Viola, she had to resist any temptation to hear more. “Agnes, honey, stop now. Please,” she asserted, “I have no desire to speculate on the condition of their relationship.”

“Oh?” Agnes paused a moment, then asked Vicki, “There isn’t some small part of you that wants to speculate? That hasn’t speculated already?” Her eyes were wide and honest with her enquiry.

Actress she was, yet Vicki knew in this case it would be useless to play the part she should; the drink, coupled with surprise that her companion had hit the mark so precisely, left her unprepared to tell a convincing lie. Instead, she could feel tears prickling her eyes, wanting to fall, deeply touched by Agnes’ gentle perception—and by the thought of actually sharing the secret she had been denying to herself at every turn.

Agnes didn’t wait for an answer, reading the truth on Vicki’s face. She slid her arm around Vicki’s shoulders, telling her gently, “I know you fancy him, dear.” She sighed and, anticipating her friend’s concern, added, “Don’t worry, you’ve hidden it well. I’ll bet even your sister hasn’t a clue.”

Vicki looked to her, smiling sadly, “I’m a ridiculous woman, right?”

Agnes chuckled softly, pulling her closer, “Not at all, love. But the question is—what do you plan to do about it?”  
Momentarily stunned by the frankness of that query, Vicki sputtered gracelessly, “Nothing. There’s nothing I _can_ do.” She closed her eyes, shaking off her momentary weakness, seeking her usual poise, “It’s just a silly crush, and it’ll pass in its own good time.”

“But I don’t think it has to—not if you really don’t want it to.” Vicki rolled her eyes, soundless and looking doubtful, so that Agnes continued, “I’ve heard things. Surprising things…” When Vicki appeared about to object, Agnes rushed to add, “I’ve seen things. And I’m telling you, things aren’t as rosy there as people believe…”

“And I don’t need you putting these impossible thoughts in my head,” Vicki interjected. She hung her head a moment, exasperated and trying to suppress the flutter of hope the idea kindled in her chest. “I can’t be hearing these things, Agnes. It’s pointless to even consider them.”

“Suit yourself.” Agnes inclined her head closer, softening her tone sympathetically, “But as your friend, I think you should know…I’ve seen him watching you…”

Vicki pulled a face, trying not to show the undeniable thrill this revelation gave her. “Nothing unusual about that,” she contended, “It’s what we all do.  Actors observe, and he is…” She closed her eyes, unable to keep a small smile from dimpling her cheeks as she considered _all_ the remarkable things Benedict was, “…consummate…about every aspect of the craft.”

Agnes smiled forbearingly, her voice low and sincere, “He watches _you_ , Vicki. When you’re not looking. There’s a softness there…and a sort of…sadness…and it’s not about what you’re doing up there as Kate.” She shrugged and sighed, “It’s about you.”

Speechless, Vicki shook her head fiercely, denying not only that possibility, but the delight that vied with her better judgement to hear no more. She managed a quiet sound of negation and breathed deeply, “If…and I mean _if_ …there’s something there, he hasn’t said a word. Nor shown me in any other way an interest beyond friendship between two colleagues.”

Agnes appeared stubbornly unconvinced, but Vicki was saved the need for further protestation when Phe returned to their table. She was beaming, bouncing lightly on her toes as she waited for the women’s full attention. Vicki grinned up at her, happy for her sister’s obvious delight—and grateful for the interruption on the topic that would best be left to lie unexplored. “Well?” she exclaimed, “What news, my sister fair?”

Phe wiggled her shoulders, sighing and grinning further still, batting her eyes before replying, “Dinner _and_ the cinema, Saturday night!” Vicki clapped her hands softly, and Phe slid back into the booth beside her, “And he told me that if I hadn’t come over to talk to him, he would’ve come over here to ask me out all the same.”

“Smart and dishy,” Vicki chuckled, “ _And_ he’s got a steady job. Very promising, Phe.” She teased her sister gently, “Shall I pencil in a date for a spring wedding?”

Phe drew an exaggerated sigh, “Not just yet. If things work out, we can always live in sin for a while. You know what they say about people who marry in haste.”

Though that barb was meant just for Vicki, it was dealt harmlessly, as so much of the ribbing between the sisters was. Vicki nodded, choosing to play along. “I know, I know,” she answered drolly, “They repent in leisure, but rue the fact they didn’t bother with a pre-nup.”

“What’s this?” Agnes asked, “Have you been holding out on me! You’ve a secret husband tucked away somewhere?”

Vicki groaned, knowing the subject would not be closed until fully explained. “I told you I’m a ridiculous woman. Completely foolhardy in matters of the heart…”

“Oh, let me tell this time, Vicki,” Phe chortled, “You’re bound to leave out the juiciest bits, and Agnes deserves to hear the full story.”

Vicki, caught between one woman eager to hear the tale, and the other excited to tell it, didn’t even try to deny what was coming next. Instead she raised her glass, swallowed the dregs, and ceded the conversation to her sister.

As she settled back in the booth, awaiting the next round of drinks, she listened as Phe began the infamous account of Vicki’s whirlwind romance and brief, tumultuous marriage. The bitterness of that pill was long past, though the lessons learned were writ well upon her heart. For that very reason alone, Vicki knew she had to quash the tender feelings towards Benedict, that had somehow taken root against her common sense. And yet, as her sister’s voice wove the story—with Agnes listening raptly--she found herself considering once again, the crooked quirkiness of his smile, the scent of his cologne (Vicki couldn’t name the brand just yet, but there was citrus, sandalwood and amber in the mix—and combined with the scent of his skin, it made her think of luxury and long nights in front of the hearth; of patiently aged rum and good tobacco and clandestine candlelight conversations) and the most forbidden thing of all…how the stage kisses they had shared thus far had begun to leave her wistful and wishing for more--in much the same way as they did for her tempestuous, peevish Kate.


	5. the morning after

That conversation with Agnes had left Vicki restless and dissatisfied, questioning herself through the midnight hours, and preventing her from a good night’s rest as she accepted, at last, the truth she’d been denying for weeks. Daylight brought her no relief; she barely tasted her scant breakfast, moving through her morning routine by rote, and arriving at the tube station for her trip to the  _Apollo_   _Victoria_ without even marking those around her. She tallied the damning evidence, riding on her way in reclusive silence, reaching the undeniable conclusion that her heart had indeed gotten the better of her, despite her best intentions.

But she had sworn she wouldn’t do this again. Fall for her leading man. It was a ridiculous habit she had, and it had left her with more than her fair share of broken hearts. And she had broken a fair share herself. No one warned her about this in drama school, this ludicrous hazard of the profession; it was a hard-learned lesson that had plagued the early years of her career, but she had matured since then, and knew so much better. That last affair had ended in an ill-timed, short-lived marriage, and Vicki had vowed since then to _never_ go down that road again. And she had been as good as her word, recommitting herself instead to nurturing her talent, seeking out roles that would best help her grow as an artist, while providing for greater name recognition and public appreciation for her body of work.

So how in the hell did she find herself in this predicament?

Just when did she begin to look forward to _Shrew_ rehearsals for more than the satisfaction of bringing breath and life to her character and for the fellowship of artists all working toward the same creative vision? When did it start to matter so much to her if Benedict noticed she had changed a line reading, or how she looked in a particular costume piece? How did it happen that those times he broke from character, lapsing into some silly or irreverent behavior, thus disturbing her usual rhythm—things which she normally found exasperating and a huge waste of time with actors she had worked with in other productions—she found dear and adorable, and broke from character herself to laugh joyously alongside him? When had the mirth in his eyes, or the way the light played on their colour, become the highlight of her morning? And how had that damned, slightly crooked smile (Vicki sighed as she pictured it, subtle and sweet, and just that little bit wider on the left side of his mouth, before it stretched into a grin that lit his whole face), and the shadow beneath the natural, delicious pout of his lower lip, become the last things she thought of as she was drifting off to sleep at night? This was _not_ what she had signed on for.

Maybe it was the morning he’d brought her iced coffee, exactly as she liked it—vanilla caramel again--even though she hadn’t asked or even told him how she took it. She and several cast members—Ben and Viola included—had been out the evening before, for a merry night of drinks and karoke following a long, drawn out day of rehearsal. Vicki had literally let down her hair, blowing off steam and indulging far beyond her usual. Eventually, she had found herself singing some silly pop duet opposite Benedict, embracing utter foolishness as a team; the drink had her a little unsteady on her pins, but he’d made her look good when she stumbled at the end, right into his arms, as though they’d planned it as a grand finish to the number. The crowd hooted laughter and approval, and Vicki thanked him quietly later on for helping her cover her blunder. Benedict had winked, and flashed that boyish half-smile her way, telling her it had been his pleasure. Presenting her the iced coffee the next morning, he’d commented wryly that it wasn’t quite the hair of the dog, but he hoped it would ease her into the day’s rehearsal all the same. Was that the moment, she wondered, when he’d found the chink in the armor round her heart?

After that, damn him, he’d made a point of bringing her coffee on those mornings when they decided to meet before rehearsal to run lines. She’d come to look forward to those interludes much more than her common sense told her she should. And half of _that_ time they’d spend chatting instead, at first discussing past productions and roles, eventually moving on to broader topics of favorite books and films, of philosophy and politics, and where they each hoped to see themselves years down the road. Vicki had tried not to read anything special into their quiet, heartfelt conversations, but she always came away from them a little breathless with happiness that he seemed to care about her thoughts and opinions.

Perhaps it was how he seemed to be aware that she had a weakness for chocolate gelato, and that when she allowed herself the treat, she’d avoid all carbs religiously the next day and spend extra time on the treadmill in order to make up for it. Having found her out—and he would’ve learned this by observation, for it wasn’t a penchant she spoke of aloud--Benedict would tease her good naturedly, tempting her with a variety of sweets, doing so with his usual easy charm that made it nearly impossible for her to be irritated with him.

He even knew about Hero--whom Vicki often joked was the last great love of her life because she could count upon being loved unconditionally as long as there was a constant supply of canned tuna—taking quiet note during their conversations, and from hearing Vicki mention her to others, that Hero preferred to nestle to sleep against her abdomen, and went a little crazy with fear at the crash of thunder.

Or maybe it wasn’t only these casual little things, these unexpected interactions which showed his honest, benevolent nature and caused her heart to speed its pace whenever he entered the room. Benedict’s sheer talent took her breath away at times, easily inspiring her to rise to the standard he set. He was whip smart and confident and gregarious, with a wicked--and sometimes toothsome—sense of humor, and was genuinely humble. He was compassionate (Vicki was convinced this was the well-spring of his insight into human nature, that made his characters so true to life) and above all, he was kind. Taken individually, admirable traits, every one; taken altogether, they were combination her lonely heart had no defense against.

Yet it wasn’t entirely one-sided (despite what she’d claimed to Agnes), of that she was nearly certain. For weeks he’d been sending mixed signals her way. Many times she’d look up to find him watching her intently—exactly as Agnes had observed--and when their eyes met, he’d hold her gaze and give that wee quirk of a smile—the one that could easily be missed by eyes not accustomed to its charm—before looking away. It was damnable, really; it was like a warm secret that made you want to know even more.

And Vicki was sure he went out of his way to touch her, beyond the bounds of Petruchio and Kate. Nothing that could be called sexual, of course, but enough to quicken her pulse with delight. A brush of his elegant fingers against her own; a casual arm thrown around her shoulders, holding on longer than if it were common camaraderie; a gentle hand rubbing between her shoulder blades when he came up beside her to have a quiet word; a firm palm on the small of her back as they walked together in rapt conversation about their work—at first, anyway. Now, it seemed to her, he took that opportunity more and more, and for a wide variety of reasons, and somehow she’d unwittingly become an easy mark. Each time left her feeling a little more weak-kneed than the last, even while she insisted to herself that it simply _had_ to mean nothing in light of Viola.

Vicki had been scrupulously careful about not sending equal signals his way, especially in the presence of The Girlfriend. In fact, she believed that she’d done almost nothing beyond respectable bounds. Why she’d even flirted unabashedly with several of the actors and crew, right before Benedict’s eyes, just to prove the point to _herself_ that her feelings for him were trifling; and it had little whatsoever to do with her niggling desire to show him other men found her attractive. Of course, she hadn’t allowed these cursory dalliances to progress beyond simple, passing amusement; what would be the point of that?

No—she told herself, she had barely shown interest in him outside their relationship as cast mates, despite the growing affection she felt for him. Affection which she couldn’t quite seem to smother. It was all due to his damned charm and affability, and these had caught her well and good.

Thus, for what seemed like the hundredth time, she entered the stage doors, vowing—as was best for all concerned--not to allow him under her skin this day. Knowing she’d likely swoon a little inside anyway, at the smooth sound of his voice speaking her name, and the remarkable clarity of his eyes that seemed—if she was completely honest with herself--to tell her every day that he knew _exactly_ what she was feeling, and that, against all odds, he just might feel the very same.

_(to be continued)_


	6. accidents happen

“It’s just bruised, not broken—thankfully,” she informed him, “And if I stay off it the next couple of days, I should be fine for rehearsal on Monday.” The honest look of relief that crossed his face echoed how Vicki felt. Benedict took a few tentative steps into the consulting room, then grimaced at the sight of her discolored right foot propped up on a pillow. She felt obliged to assure him, “Honestly, it looks far worse than it feels right now.”

Benedict ran a hand through his hair, and tilted his head sheepishly; the effect made him look very young—and very penitent. “Again, I’m…I’m so sorry, Vicki. I’m an utter twit,” he said at last, peering at her sidelong, his eyes narrowed and gaging her response, "And obviously, an absolute klutz."

She knew, of course--as well as he--that he was anything but. Benedict usually moved with remarkably balletic grace, but she found his attempt at self-deprecation…quite sweet. “Yes; yes you are,” she teased him, making him wait a little more for absolution—for she couldn’t let on too readily how easily he had charmed his way to forgiveness. “But fortunately for you, rather an endearing one, so…” Vicki sighed dramatically, “…I suppose I won’t be holding it against you.”

His smile was warm and genuine, and its light was just for her. She wondered once again if he had any idea of the power it held over her—then reminded herself it was for the best that he did not. It would only complicate their working relationship, and the easy friendship that had flowered between them. And with opening night merely ten days away, there mustn’t be any distraction to dampen the rapport between them, or between their Petruchio and Kate.

The interaction between the two characters was rich with physical comedy, and Vicki and Benedict had rehearsed these well-choreographed bits dozens of times, so it was only a split-second fluke that had led to her injury. Act IV, scene 3; Petruchio leading Kate through an intricate, comic dance while denying her a prized cap and gown made just for her--all part of his plan to tame her shrewish ways by keeping her so off-kilter that her defiant will would fade into the subservience of goodly wife.

The scene had been playing out as usual, Petruchio adamantly holding the pieces just out of Kate’s grasp, while making her weave a path around him as he advanced across the stage. Each step had been carefully timed to coincide with dialogue, rehearsed painstakingly until the actors moved without effort or second thought. Yes, Benedict had stomped on her toes a time or two as they honed the edges of these comic bits; other times he’d zigged when he should have zagged so that their feet had gotten tangled on occasion, but Vicki counted every bump and bruise just minor inconveniences on the way to the finished product—before today, anyway. Today he’d added a bit of a flourish as he raised the cap beyond her reach; a jot of extra showmanship that suited Petruchio perfectly, but was enough to disrupt the flow of their routine.

It happened all too fast. One moment she was lunging towards him, sure of her timing and place, and in the next, unchecked momentum was carrying her tripping past him. Normally, Benedict caught her up at this point, held her teasingly close for a beat, then released her with a spin enough to disorient her Kate. This time, he could only turn as Vicki stumbled past him, realizing he had skewed their timing, and reaching too late to slow her down. He caught only a wisp of fabric between his fingers, unable to keep her from banging into a short set of wooden stairs, dressed to look like stone,

Her right foot took the brunt of the impact. The pain was immediate and intense; it was the sort of pain that came from hitting that exact spot on one's elbow—the ‘funny bone’—but multiplied several times, radiating up the nerves in her leg like deeply embedded hot wires. Vicki landed squarely on her bottom, wind knocked out of her, grimacing, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain and involuntary tears rolling down her cheeks. Her first thought was that this spelled disaster for her, wasting all the precious weeks of work she’d put into this production; her next, how lucky her understudy was going to be after all; and finally, how terribly she’d miss seeing Benedict daily, working with him, laughing with him, and memorizing all his dearest details to ponder in the nightly quiet of her little flat.

He was the first to rush to her side, concerned and apologizing for his part in the mishap. And it was Benedict who gingerly slid the character shoe from her foot, gasping in surprise at the how rapidly it had swelled. Someone had gotten an ice pack, and passed it to him through the small throng of concerned cast mates and crew. By default, it seemed, he was entrusted with ministering to her—perhaps because his personality inspired others to see him as a leader, perhaps because the care of others was inherent to his nature.

His hands were gentle—no surprise—gentle as he raised her foot across his lap and applied the ice pack. But as the pain subsided from sharp insistence to a constant aching throb, Vicki began to feel foolish that Benedict had seen her so weak, and crying like a feckless girl. “Help me up, please,” she asked him, bracing herself with a deep breath as he shifted her leg so he could stand, then took her outstretched hands. Leaning upon him heavily, she flexed her foot several times, biting her lip against the stiffness and the sting that followed, and wincing when she tried to put weight on it.

Stage Manager Liam Jeffries hovered close, ready to lend a hand—or at least, advice, “I’m afraid it’s hospital for you, young lady. You need to have that looked at.”

Vicki closed her eyes, shaking her head, but still accepting the inevitable and trying to think of how to accomplish that feat with as little fuss as possible. “Liam, could you maybe ring up a taxi for me?” Jeffries nodded, pulling out his mobile and starting to search for a local service.

“No need for that, Liam,” Benedict interjected, “I’ll take her…”

Vicki turned his way, self-conscious about appearing needy, and firmly informed him, “No you won’t; you’re needed here much more. I’ll find my way on my own.” When he looked doubtful, she quickly added, “Really, I’ll be fine, Ben. Thank you, but please don’t trouble yourself.”

One side of his mouth ticked up in the quirky precursor to his honest, boyish smile—the one she had no defense against—and before he even spoke, she read from his eyes that he saw right through her attempt at stubborn independence. His voice was low, deep and persuasive, though his smile alone had already been enough to convince her, “Vicki, please. It would be useless for me to stay because there isn’t much to be accomplished at this point without you.” She started to pose a final, weak objection, but he continued without pause, “Besides, it’s my fault this happened to begin with, and since I’m not taking no for an answer, it will be easier on the both of us if you just come along peacefully.” Benedict looked to Jeffries, “I’m going to pull my car out front; can you help Ms. Gordon collect her things and see her out to the curb?”

“Consider it done, Mr. C.,” the older man quipped, winking and grinning, before moving downstage to inform Davies he was losing his two principals for the remainder of rehearsal. With Viola already away for the weekend, attending her sister’s engagement party in Leeds, there was little point in continuing, so the remaining cast got an unexpected, sunny Friday afternoon off.

It was nearly two hours until Vicki was taken in for examination, but Benedict—whose plain navy ball cap and hipster eyeglasses discouraged most of the would-be gawkers--kept her entertained, doing his best to keep her mind off her discomfort, and only leaving her side once, to grab a bag of cashews and a couple of chocolate bars from the vending machine, for them to share. Another hour passed as she was examined and x-rayed, and it was nigh on dinner time as she waited to be discharged. All that remained was for the physician’s assistant to wrap her foot (compression was advised to manage the swelling, along with elevation and a prescription anti-inflammatory) and go over her discharge papers.

As they left the consulting room, the young P.A. reminded Vicki to tread lightly the next few days, advice she took to immediately to heart, allowing herself to lean on her companion without a twinge of guilt for the secret, fleeting pleasure she felt as he slipped his strong arm around her waist.

* * *

At Benedict’s insistence, they had stopped for a quick supper at a pub halfway between the hospital and Vicki’s flat. He must’ve expected her to protest his continued assistance, for he told her before she even opened her mouth, “Don’t even _think_ you’ll be taking the underground home,” unaware (she hoped, anyway) that she was more than happy to acquiesce and spend a little more time in his company.

Still, she knew the evening had to end once they reached her place in Chelsea; it was far too much, and far too foolish, to expect any more than the kindness he had shown her thus far. They found an obstacle—one that they should have anticipated--as soon as Benedict pulled along the curb in front of the terraced brick Victorian that housed her flat; a half dozen stairs to be surmounted just to get to the front door.

“Damn…” Vicki whispered, leaning back against the headrest while reckoning the difficulty that lay ahead, “I’d forgotten that.”

“Forgotten what?” he asked, unmindful for a moment more, of the challenge ahead.  He looked from Vicki to the scene outside his window, seeing it at last, then laughed softly, “Ah. That.” He turned back to her, grinning jauntily, “Easy peasy, don’t you think?”

And although Vicki knew those six stairs were mere child’s play compared to what awaited them inside, the merry sparkle in his eyes belayed her misgivings. She nodded, allowing a hint of the coquette to color her voice, “I leave myself in your capable hands, good sir. So please, do lead on…” she paused for a breath, enjoying his reaction in the suggestive arch of his brow, as she finished, “…and I shall certainly follow.”

* * *

“I don’t suppose you’re on the ground floor?” he asked, peering up into the low lit stairwell. Despite their curbside bravado, climbing two and a half flights of stairs was a far more daunting task then the one they had already accomplished.

“Um…third floor, actually,” she told him, waiting for the obvious next question.

“And no lift?” Benedict brushed two fingers across his lips as he considered their narrowing options, making Vicki sigh a little inside—for it was just one of those absentminded habits of his of which she had grown all too fond.

She shook her head as she answered, “When the building was renovated, they decided to do without. Wanted to keep as close to the original design as possible, to keep the feel of the period it was built in.” The walk up had never bothered her before; she was young and fairly fit, so it had never been an issue. Seeing where his mind was headed, she swiftly added, “Don’t worry, I can manage the rest of the way myself…”

Benedict inhaled sharply, gritting his teeth, “Well now, I just can’t leave you to _crawl_ up all these stairs.” He sighed decisively, and motioned for her to come closer, “C’mere, then.”

Vicki shook her head again, obstinately, and told him without a second thought, “No, really, I’ll be fine.” She was relieved the lighting was dim, as she felt herself flush with a mixture of embarrassment at the inconvenience she had clearly become—and the thought of how closely he’d have to hold her to help her hobble up all those stairs.

“Don’t be silly,” he replied, looking and sounding amused at her predicament. “What sort of gentleman would I be to leave you in a lurch—especially considering that I’m the one who put you there to begin with.”

She only stared at him stubbornly, unwilling to concede just yet, but knowing she couldn’t realistically manage the dozens of stairs up to her flat without his help. Benedict, on the other hand, seemed both pleased and confident that he was, in fact, her only solution. Vicki sighed in frustration, bowing to expedience, and hung her head in mock defeat, “If we must, I suppose we must. But…” she cast him a saucy, defiant look while she added in her best Scottish brogue, “…‘twere well it were done quickly then…”

He met her impudence with a sly grin, quoting back from _Macbeth_ as well, and sounding fresh from the highlands himself, “Och--but screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail.” There was just enough mischief in his voice to give her pause, wondering—and even hoping—his motive to assist her wasn’t merely altruistic.

In the face of no further objection, he moved to Vicki’s side and slid his arm firmly around her waist. They managed the first short run of stairs awkwardly, Benedict bracing her as she hopped on her good foot from step to step. Reaching the landing, they stopped, each panting a little from the exertion. Vicki laughed, looking down and shaking her head, “This really wasn’t the brightest idea, was it?” She looked back up to catch him smiling indulgently, the familiar spark of humor in his eyes enough to make her inhibitions begin to melt.

He considered what might come next, then answered with a little shrug, “As I see it, you have a choice. I can throw you across my shoulder, which would be quite undignified but, hmmm…” He was teasing her mercilessly and clearly enjoying every moment of it, “...possibly quite fun, more so for me than for you, of course. Or…I could carry you up like the damsel in distress that you are…” Vicki opened her mouth, ready to protest the very thought of being so pitifully helpless a feminine cliché, but he raised a hand to beg her indulgence a few seconds more, adding, “which is likely to be far more pleasant an experience for the both of us, and I can walk away afterward thinking myself a splendid hero type.”

She rolled her eyes, smirking despite her determination not to let his ready humor sneak past her defenses. He was all patience as he waited for her to reach the inescapable conclusion. Vicki sighed dramatically, and bobbed her head in acceptance of his plan.

Gracious in victory, Benedict lifted her into his arms with no trouble at all, seemingly unaware that she was very conscious of every inch of contact between them. It was as pleasant as she had feared, as she hooked one arm around his neck and laid the other on his shoulder, holding on as tightly as she dared—all while trying not to show him how much she was enjoying the familiarity of their makeshift embrace. It was oh so hard to ignore the flex of his firm muscles, pressed against him as she was, let alone the tantalizing mixed scent of his cologne and the warm flesh of his neck, with the steady rhythm of his breathing a counterpoint to the beating of her heart. Vicki closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the brief but blissful ride.

Naturally winded from the climb, Benedict still managed to smoothly set her down before the door to her flat. Her back to him, Vicki pulled the keys from her handbag and unlocked her door, dawdling as she decided her next course. Common sense was telling her to bid him good night, and wisely shelter herself behind her good, solid oak door, but the whims of her heart had her electing otherwise. She straightened her shoulders as she dared the question that had been on her mind since they had left the pub, turning back to him, “You’ve come _this_ far, perhaps you’d like to come inside?” Vicki aimed for nonchalance, despite how suddenly her happiness hinged upon his answer, “The least I can do is offer my ‘splendid hero type’ a drink or two.”

And there it was, that lop-sided smile that was his most spontaneous, giving her his answer before he even spoke. “I was hoping for that very thing,” he answered, his voice low but enough to give her shivers of anticipation, “but I was starting to think you’d never ask.”

( _to be continued_ )


	7. where better angels dare not tread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do forgive typos/grammar errors. Time is short for me right now, and I just couldn't wait to publish this. As always, thank you for reading!

Vicki opened the door wide and reached around the frame to her right, switching on the overhead light, to reveal a small foyer. She laid her keys on a petite, marble-topped wood table beneath the light switch, then turned back to urge him inside. “It’s rather small, but it’s mine,” she told him brightly, favoring her right foot as she limped along. She turned back to face him, smiling gamely, “Well, mine and the bank’s anyway.” She led him into a large room, whose space was cunningly arranged into three distinct areas. Vicki leaned on the sofa back as she moved from end to end, turning on matching, Tiffany style lamps.

The warm light they provided revealed the largest area as a comfortable looking living room with a granite tiled hearth, it’s cherry wood mantle filled with framed photographs, pride of place given on either end to Vicki’s well-coveted awards; the Critic’s Circle trophy for her portrayal of Rosalind in _As You Like It_ , and the Ian Charleson Award for her work in Euripides’ _Medea_.

A mahogany Princess Anne flip top secretary stood in one corner, upon which sat a bronze desk lamp and Vicki’s laptop, along with neatly arranged stationary and writing implements. The surrounding bookcases were filled to the brim. Everything in sight was arranged with a quiet, elegant order.

“Wait, though,” she advised him, making her way to the far end of the room, “it gets even better.” A pale pink divan and matching easy chair were set against a backdrop of voluminous ceiling to floor sheers, ivory hued with a generous swag of dusty pink moiré atop them. The low conversation table between the chair and divan was strewn with several scripts, a yellow legal pad covered in notes, and two leather-bound books, revealed upon closer inspection to be a treatise on Shakespeare’s attitudes towards women, marriage and children, and an analysis of Elizabethan social conventions. Vicki passed by the antique looking floor lamp behind the head of the divan, and swiftly pulled the cord of the drapes, revealing the London night—with stunning views of the Thames and Battersea Park--through spotless sliding glass doors.

“This was all I needed to make me fall in love with the place,” she declared proudly. “The view is spectacular, don’t you think?”

Benedict joined her at the windows, taking in the sight of the lights reflected in the river, able to see the London Eye as it spun in the distance, its own lights the only outline needed to mark its place in the skyline.

“They look like earthbound stars,” he murmured, referring not only to the reflected lights, but those of distant skyscrapers rising into the night.

Vicki was lost a little in study of his profile, happy to see she’d brought a look of wonder to his face, “My thoughts exactly,” she answered, certain he could not tell the only stars she saw this night were the light of his eyes. Without a word, she slid open the glass door, taking his hand to lead him onto the balcony encased in a wrought iron rail.

Still in awe, Benedict let out a low, appreciative whistle, “That is some magnificent view.” He leaned on the rail, shaking his head in amazement, gladly admitting, “And definitely worth the climb.”

“I thought you might say so,” she replied, smiling broadly. Before she could stop the impulse, Vicki slid her hand into the crook of his arm—for it just seemed right, as she shared her precious secret with him. She leaned closer, sighing softly, “And you should see it at sunset.”

“Is that an invitation?” he asked, finally turning her way. His eyes widened as he caught the expression on her face.

A little breathless now, she gazed out at the velvet darkness, slipping behind her mask of cooler sentiment before looking back at him, “Consider it a standing one.” His mouth hung open a moment, and Vicki wondered if she’d finally gone too far, if it was too bold an offer. She shivered despite the balminess of the evening, but then he gave a small huff of laughter, melting her concern away. “Fair warning, then,” his voice was intimate and low, and as always, surely unaware of its effect on her, “I _will_ hold you to that.”

Vicki tilted her head, deciding that she had not betrayed her secret after all, and delivered her exit line lightly, “I’ll be counting the hours until you do.” She turned as smoothly as she could—hobbled though she was—leaving him to follow her back into her flat.

* * *

 After a little deliberation, they settled upon a 2010 Pinot Noir, and were making easy work of polishing it off, their conversation light and casual, with neither Vicki nor Benedict giving notice to the hour. Hero—Vicki’s black-haired, blue-eyed little princess--had been cautious at first, towards the stranger in the room; but once Vicki had settled onto one end of the sofa—and the stranger took the other—she made her move, jumping effortlessly up to perch on her lady’s lap, staking her claim with a sanguine air. Vicki stroked her fur idly, engrossed in their discussion, while Hero eyed Benedict with mild interest.

It wasn’t much longer until Benedict rose to fetch another bottle of wine, making himself quite at home in Vicki’s small kitchen, peeking his head around the corner to confirm his selection with her, “How about this moscato? I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

“That’ll be perfect,” she called back to him, scratching behind Hero’s ears, and sending the little beast into a contented fit of purring, “It’s like you read my mind.”

Benedict returned, filled Vicki’s glass and then his own, left the bottle on the coffee table and took a spot on the sofa, closer now to Vicki. It was a cozy sort of closeness, surely encouraged by the wine—but Vicki would offer no protest. “Now then,” he said, his eyes bright with the drink and the pleasantness between them, “where were we?”

She had been about to answer him, and perhaps too audaciously, but Hero took the moment as her cue, turning her narrowed eyes in Benedict’s direction, lightly sniffing the air, and finally deciding he was worth closer inspection. “Go on then,” Vicki prompted her quietly, “no need to be shy.”

Encouraged by her mistress, the cat slipped from her lap, cautious but finally giving in to curiosity. Benedict held out a gentle hand to her, focused on the little creature, remaining mute as he awaited her verdict, and smiling that quirky little smile that Vicki found so dear. Hero stretched her nose a mite closer, until she was nearly brushing it against his skin. And then, at last, she began to rub her head against his open palm, closing her eyes and purring like a happy little engine.

“Well now,” Vicki marveled, watching him gently ruffle Hero’s fur, “she’s warmed to you quite nicely.” Hero confirmed that observation shortly, curling against his leg and closing her eyes in happy satisfaction as he continued to pet her softly.

“Of course she has,” he quipped in a tone of self-deprecation, “I am, after all, rather irresistible.” He raised his eyes to catch Vicki’s response; she laughed lightly in agreement, and her widened eyes unwittingly lingered on his. Suddenly she felt caught in their open, honest regard of her, causing her to falter for a clever reply and making her fear her secret feelings for him were all at once laid bare.

In an instant, it was there on his face—recognition, and dare she think, reciprocation--stopping her breath so that she broke from his gaze, nervous and tongue-tied at the silent but palpable current of attraction lingering between them.

Vicki reached for her glass, swallowing deeply before she could face him again. When she did, she found his eyes downcast; his bright humor seemed to have fled, his profile looked pensive, leaving her at a loss to continue their conversation. Perhaps he was remembering himself, and that he didn’t belong in this place, at this hour. She would regret if he decided to leave right now, but would surely understand his need to do so—for she had no standing to expect any more than what they had already shared: good company, good conversation, and just the mildest of flirtations.

As though he caught the drift of her thoughts, he stated simply, “After this glass, I should probably be going.” Subdued as he sounded, Benedict’s voice was richer than any chocolate Vicki had ever craved, making her long for what she had no right to even consider.

“Of course.” She tried to sound nonchalant for his sake, in defiance of what she wanted most, “I guess we lost track of time, didn’t we?” Vicki nodded, trying her best to not sound disappointed, “I’d just talk your ear off otherwise, if given the chance…”

“No; no, it’s not that at all,” he interrupted, facing her again, “I like talking to you. I, um…I really do.” Benedict leaned a little closer, his tone thoughtful and sincere, “You’re one of the brightest, funniest women I’ve ever met. So very clever.” He was watching her intently, as though trying to glean the truth behind her cavalier façade. “And we, uh…we speak the same language, don’t we?” He drew a quiet sigh, pondering that idea, then added, “In so many ways.”

“So _many_ ways,” she repeated breathlessly, weakened by his compliments and the sweetness of his crooked smile. Vicki could feel how easy it would be to let her guard down at last; to follow her natural inclinations instead of hiding the feelings his closeness engendered. But as was her habit, she did her best to school her face in the hope that Benedict wouldn’t read her hopeless secret there. She raised her chin, resolute to play her part properly, “Well then, Ben dear, since you’re set on leaving, please pour me another glass, because I’m staying right here, and no need to waste the bottle…” she gave a small sigh of regret, her eyes grown wide, and finished with a slight pout, “…even if it means drinking alone.”

T’sking several times in feigned disapproval, Benedict acknowledged her ploy with a stern looking smirk. But the arch of his brow—as he reached for the bottle—conveyed the truth: he was only too glad to be given an excuse to remain after all. He refilled her glass, and then topped off his own, before settling back on the sofa, Hero still filling the small space between them. Seeing Benedict’s mood had brightened again, Vicki allowed herself to conclude that it had been the prospect of departure that had subdued him, rather than guilt of any sort for Viola’s sake.

And so the evening spun along, while they spoke of many things, sharing their best memories from productions past, swapping stories and observations, leaning nearer one another naturally, and coming close to finishing their second bottle. If the wine and the lateness of the hour were loosening their propriety, neither was willing to speak it aloud. When Benedict announced again that he should be going, his regret was clear—and Vicki swiftly pointed out that he wasn’t fit to drive just yet. She meant it sincerely, for his safety, but the truth was that both of them were relieved for the excuse that allowed him to stay a while longer. If it was a patent justification to keep him there, it was surely enough for both of them, although they would never call it what it _really_ was: two people resonating and in complete tune with one another; two perfectly compatible people having found each other at last, but under the most impossible circumstances; two people equally used to covering their self-doubt and insecurities and heartaches, showing the world happy faces instead, even on the days it hurt like hell. There was comradery here, and comfort too—and there was something even more.

There was only one thing to mar the surprising perfection of the evening; an absent third party that loitered on the outskirts of their conversation. Viola remained unspoken between them, the silent guardian restraining them from giving into the certain attraction they shared.

* * *

Midnight came—and went—and yet they lingered still. Hero had lost interest for a time, sauntering off to the kitchen for a while, but eventually returning to leap nimbly to her place between the two—a space that had somehow shrunk in her absence, but one she was not shy about bridging. Vicki reached for her, absentmindedly, smoothing the fur along her little face. Hero squeezed her eyes shut and stretched her neck, rubbing against Vicki’s palm and purring loudly.

Benedict laughed softly at their interplay, “You’ve got the magic touch, it seems.”

“No,” she mused, enjoying Hero’s affectionate response, “she’s a sly one; she knows just where her bread is buttered.” She grew philosophical as she told him, “We’re companion souls, I suppose. Both destined for the solitary journey…but when I need a good cry, she puts up with all my histrionics without complaint.”

He made no reply; his eyes had narrowed as though he was trying to puzzle her out, appraise her, or find the secret that she held close. It was both pleasant and unnerving to have him focus on her so. Wit deserted her, and she asked softly, “What?”

He shook his head slightly, and took a breath before responding, “Solitary journey. Do you really see yourself that way?”

Unprepared for the gentle concern on his face and in his simple query, Vicki gasped quietly, and then looked away. The wine had loosened her tongue too much, it seemed; perhaps it would be best to make light of the topic, before she revealed too much of the heart she kept well hidden. She tinged her voice with a mirth she did not feel, smiling jauntily as she turned back his way, “Trust me, Ben. I’ve had _more_ than my fair share of doomed romances already. They’re really not what they’re cracked up to be.” She grabbed her wine stem, draining it in a long swallow; swallowing the truth as well, far too taboo to share.

Incredulous, Benedict could not let the topic rest. “That’s it then; you’re giving up on love?” he sputtered, “When you have so much to offer some lucky man out there?” He shook his head, “That’s not you, Vicki. _You_ don’t give up. If anything, you set your sights on what you want and _make_ it happen. With charm and grace. With wit and droll humor, and…and…” His voice cracked as he struggled to convince her, “…oh Christ…with a feminine sensibility that any man would be hard pressed to resist…” Benedict trailed off, his normally full lips pressed thin, his brows drawn together in a crease above his nose, looking perplexed and too adorable to be resisted himself.

Vicki’s heart was racing; to have him proclaim such things was a dream she hadn’t believed possible. Like manna from heaven for the hungry, and she wanted more—but this was dangerous ground. She knew she’d been walking the razor’s edge since she had dared inviting him in, and one slip could prove her undoing. She looked down at Hero--blissfully unaware of the battle raging inside her lady’s head—sinking her fingers deep in her fur, muttering softly, “Don’t…please Ben…you’re much too kind to me, but I can’t hear these things right now. The wine has made me rather…fuzzy-headed…and I can’t trust myself not to behave foolishly.”

That seemed to silence him, to her relief. Now it _would_ be best for him to leave, and as she readied herself to tell him so, he spoke at last. Simply, and clearly from the heart. “Any man would think himself blessed by fortune to have you in his life.” He smoothed his hand across Hero’s fur, purposely entangling his fingers with Vicki’s. The contact weakened her resolution. “You wouldn’t have to look far at all to find such a man. All you’d have to do is trust him enough tell him how you feel.”

His statement hung between them, heavy and expectant. Vicki couldn’t look at him, for tears were sure to rise if she saw on his face what she heard in his voice. He was killing her really; killing her with kindness, and sympathy, and the most impossible of things—hope. She sighed hard, finally coming as close as she could to admitting the truth, “Those thoughts and feelings are pointless when the one person you might want, is the one person you can _never_ have.”

She realized at once she shouldn’t have said that; it was going much too far. Vicki looked down, embarrassed at her foolishness, wishing she could turn back time several minutes, so that the entire topic would be avoided. Sensing the change in the dynamic between them, Hero stretched languidly, yawned as widely as cats do, and jumped off the sofa, heading towards the kitchen. Despite feeling like a childish idiot, Vicki found herself longing to move nearer to him, to close the gap between them, but she held herself in check, waiting for his answer.

There was none offered. When she dared look back to him, she saw his face had screwed up into an inscrutable expression, as though he was trying to work out a maths problem that was hopelessly beyond his level. He huffed loudly, eyes squeezed shut, and Vicki’s heart thunked with despair. _I deserve whatever nasty retort he’s got brewing for me now,_ she thought; _and goddammit, if I’ve botched our onstage chemistry_ , _I’ll never get a gig this good again…_

Instead, he left his hand on hers, leaning in at last; too close for comfort. Vicki knew she could hide nothing from him with his face so near. She lowered her lashes, afraid he would read the pitiful truth in her eyes.

“I wish I’d met you years ago,” he whispered, “This would be so much simpler if I had…”

Her eyes still averted, Vicki whimpered softly, “Please, Ben, don’t.” She gave the barest shake of her head. “I’m so tired right now, and a little drunk, and I’ve been so lonely for…for too long a time…” She trailed off, hoping he wouldn’t force any more of a reluctant confession from her.

Benedict remained silent as he tucked a swath of hair behind her ear, leaving his palm to rest against her cheek and the tips of his fingers threaded in her hair. “I know, dear. I know _exactly_ how you feel. You think the world can’t see it, but I do.” He sighed deeply and told her quietly, “I see it all, and god help me, I want to make it right for you.” He gave her no chance to reply, pulling her face to his to lay a lingering kiss upon her brow. _  
_

Any bravado she _might_ have managed melted in the face of such unexpected tenderness. Weak as a kitten, worn down and finally done with pretending she didn’t want exactly this, Vicki finally let herself go, inhaling his dear scent before tasting his true kiss at last. And as she’d always known it would, it left every stage kiss they had already shared, lying waste in the dust of her failed resolve.


	8. oh trespass sweetly urged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hour is late, the wine has been drunk, the line has been crossed--thus, propriety takes a fall.

He’d been making all the wrong choices as the evening had progressed, but despite the warning protests his conscience had been casting, Benedict couldn’t seem to stop himself. It was the sweetest temptation Vicki had offered thus far—and one he had envisioned more than once. In his imagination, he had secretly indulged the attraction that had taken root between them--which had grown first over the course of their weeks of rehearsal, and then in their extracurricular meetings; meetings that were really just a pretext for stealing a little extra time in her company. He knew it wasn’t right to act on the impulses he was feeling, and dreadfully unfair to both women in this equation, but the taste of Vicki’s mouth was too satisfying to be denied.

When he had first realized he had developed _feelings_ \--feelings beyond appreciation and respect for her talent and creativity, feelings surpassing their effortless onstage chemistry and the easy friendship that had bloomed between them--Benedict had believed that what he felt for Vicki was merely a “show crush”. The sort of thing that both professionals and amateurs could fall prey to; harmless really, arising from the close and concentrated contact of daily rehearsals with attractive, charming cast mates—especially when said players played romantic opposites. He’d experienced it before; the butterflies, the racing pulse, the deep satisfaction of creative give and take on stage, and the pleasant anticipation of discovering commonalities and differences in real life, beyond the boards. As such crushes had always faded quickly for him after closing night, he had no reason to believe this one would not follow suit.

Somewhere along the way, though—much to his dismay—things had changed. Where once he had guiltlessly enjoyed Vicki’s company, taking their professional and social interactions at face value, Benedict found himself eagerly seeking opportunities to make her smile, to bring her laughter, to lean close in confidential conversation and breathe in the fragrance of her perfume, or even just the fleeting scent of the shampoo she’d used that morning. The instinctive, unspoken communication they shared on stage bled into their off stage relationship, delighting _and_ confounding him at the same time. She had become a push-pull on his heart, and he feared the point when he would—must, even—fail to hide that from the world, let alone Viola, and Vicki herself. Even her lightest touch on his bare skin had become electric, and despite knowing that he damn well shouldn’t, he always wished for more.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching her, either—openly, in admiration as she brought Kate to fiery life—and as time passed, surreptitiously, especially when she moved about in the company other men, speculating as she flirted if _that_ one would be _the_ one she might cast her favor on. Given his relationship with Viola, he certainly had no right to ponder this, and still he couldn’t stop himself.

Benedict saw with crystal clarity a spirit very much like his own; solemn, solitary and a little isolated beneath the convivial image she projected to the world, and one that viewed their work as the keenest remedy to that particular brand of loneliness. He sensed a sad vulnerability hidden behind her plucky _bon vivant_ , and thought her all the more beautiful for how it seemed she never let it master her.

Thus all these things he learned of her—in conversation and by observation--only deepened his fascination, to ultimately intrude upon his life outside the confines of the _Victoria Apollo_. Inconvenient, foolish, meddlesome thoughts insinuated themselves between him and Viola, as it became harder and harder to just leave Vicki—in all her compelling essence—behind, when they parted company at the end of the day. If Viola sensed this yet, she had not spoken it aloud, but Benedict believed it would only be a matter of time.

Ironically, he had only taken on the role of Petruchio _for_ Viola’s sake. They had hit a rough patch early in the year; not their first, by far, but by comparison, their toughest. They’d spent the two weeks after Christmas in Los Angeles, on a holiday that combined business (his) with pleasure, an overdue, leisurely break for them after a year and a half when he’d been nearly constantly working. It had been lovely to decompress and just have simple time together, to reconnect and reinvigorate romantically. The few meetings (regarding future projects) that he’d had to take, were not enough to interfere with their time together, and there were several days they only left their Santa Monica beach resort for gourmet dinners and nights of dancing at the hottest night spots in L.A. It was Viola’s first trip to the West Coast, and she fell in love with everything about it.

But as divine as their time had been, it had birthed in her a restlessness that Benedict had never anticipated; a true hunger for bigger professional possibilities, which made Viola feel that confining herself to London—and even Great Britain--was stifling her career. She came to believe they needed to make a big move as the next, natural step in their careers—so that even before their plane had landed at Heathrow, she had begun a campaign to persuade him the time was right to make Los Angeles their new home.

Benedict was satisfied with his career trajectory, and saw no need for change; and he _already_ considered himself one of the luckiest men on earth, his film and television work having taken him far and wide around the world, introducing him to exotic locales, and peoples, customs, and traditions far from his own. He was grateful for every experience he’d had, for every blessed moment of it. But he also knew that London was—and would forever remain—the city of his heart and the centre of his world. Certainly he understood Viola’s wanderlust—but he did not share it, and therein lay the rub; the sticking place that even the best of his intentions could not overcome.

He had tried, though. Told her he needed time to think about it, and as a stopgap measure, had arranged to have the Hollywood agency that represented him, take Viola on as a client. That placated her for a time, and he had started to think she had let the issue go, but by the middle of February, she had begun to pressure him again to make the change she so desired. Fortunately, he had recently committed to a BBC series slated for production in the late fall, giving him a reprieve of sorts before he’d have to disappoint her entirely. He encouraged her, however, to follow through on any possibilities her agents found for her.

The topic rested uneasily between them, and Benedict could tell when it was left unspoken, but on her mind. Sadly, she grew pouty and distant at times, not complaining, but clearly unhappy—and short of giving in, he could think of only one way to set things right, and that would only be a temporary solution. Putting out feelers for a project for them to work together, he found _Shrew_ to be the best and timeliest solution.

Viola easily saw through his ploy, but she appreciated what he was willing to do for her—and for them. Relieved, and looking forward to the weeks and months ahead doing the work he loved, Benedict held high hopes that the experience might sway Viola from the course she was determined to pursue, and restore harmony to their relationship.

That would’ve been the ideal, anyway. Put to practice, it was not quite so. They shared too little scenes for Viola’s liking, so that whole days went by between them actually working side by side. She disagreed (correctly) with director Davies’ simpering interpretation of her character, battling to defend the integrity of Bianca as she envisioned her. Worse still, she clashed with Colin Langdon, the actor playing Lucentio, Bianca’s chief suitor; frustrated by their lack of chemistry, she grew resentful of the rapport Benedict had found with cast mates—and with Vicki in particular. Where he would leave rehearsal happy for what had been accomplished each day, and looking forward to the next day’s work, Viola grumbled her dissatisfaction more and more as opening night drew closer, much at the expense of their domestic tranquility.

Although she had made no intentional play for his affection, Vicki had gotten under his skin through this narrow schism between him and Viola. And wish as he did, that he could ignore this growing attraction, he simply could not. The more he learned of her, the more he wanted to know, and in the space of several weeks one thing became quite clear: their natures, maturity and compatibility made them feel, to one another, like a comfortable old couple, as aware of one another’s shortcomings as their virtues; like they had known each other for far longer, and nearly nothing about the other was a surprise. This allowed them to speak a language of easy familiarity, with no need to question their remarkable fit, and to simply flow forward as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now, as he settled down to sleep each night—back-to-back with a brooding Viola many nights, or on the sofa if she was being particularly tetchy—Benedict sometimes let his mind wander, allowing himself the secret pleasure of considering the humor and intelligence in Vicki’s eyes; the richness of her honest laughter and the husky tone she had adopted when playing Kate; her constant bravado which seemed a match to his own, and like his own, appeared to mask those sadly quiet secrets that the world at large could never guess. He mused at length upon her easy grace, which could devolve into a prat-fall kind of comedy when she willed it. And he counted the stage kisses they had shared thus far, wondering if she’d come to feel the same spark he did when their lips met, even though those kisses were entirely chaste. Most damning of all, he allowed himself the guilty pleasure of imagining any number of scenarios in which Vicki might come to him at last, confessing feelings for him that had grown well beyond friendship…feelings which his every instinct told him existed without question—even while his rational mind worked hard to deny such dangerous possibilities, on either of their parts.

Given his feelings for Vicki, accepting her invitation for a drink tonight had been entirely wrong, yet he’d done so without hesitation. Had part of him hoped for—even known—they’d end up this way, flush with desire and finally giving in to what had been unspoken between them almost from the start? In the light of morning, an answer would be clear; but in the quiet of this nighttime hour, he didn’t give a care.

And now, tonight...breaking from their stolen kiss, he saw she seemed a little dazed, but Vicki still had the presence of mind to register weak dissent. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered, short-breathed. The small smile that played at the corners of her mouth belayed her fragile objection.

“I know,” Benedict answered, still holding her face in his hands, and moving in to kiss her again. This kiss was longer, and much deeper than the last, and when she moaned into his mouth, all concern about right and wrong evaporated from his mind.

Finally pausing for breath, he moved away just a little and opened his eyes, to find that she had not. She looked calm, relaxed, her lips slightly open. She looked like she was dreaming, and happy to do so. It stole his breath after all, and when her tongue softly moistened her lips, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop at just those few kisses, prolonged as they had been.

When he started to pull her face back to his, her eyes fluttered open. Her enlarged pupils contracted from the light, but that did nothing to detract from the mix of emotions he read in them. The chief being desire, but there was surprise and recognition as well, and all were tempered with a sadness that pierced him, because it was the mirror of his own.

Vicki’s breath hitched and she could barely manage to speak. “We can’t do this, Ben. As good as this feels, it isn’t right.”

“I’m so bloody tired of always doing the right thing,” he told her adamantly, bringing her mouth closer to his without resistance. “Don’t you think we deserve a break from ‘the right thing’ for just a little while?” She nodded and gave a little squeak before their lips met again, for their deepest kiss yet.

Passionate as it was—and as equally forbidden—Benedict felt every moment of it, for it was _exactly_ as he had been imagining for weeks; exactly that, and even more. It was the sugar he craved for his coffee in the morning; it was the secret that is too good to keep to one’s self; it was the way a beautiful piece of music elevates the human spirit, allowing for sweet inspiration. It was, at last, the antidote to the loneliness that sometimes lived behind the face he showed the world. And it had to be just about the poorest timing of his life.

Vicki rested one hand on his shoulder and reached tentative fingers of the other to comb them through his hair, her mouth open beneath his and eagerly following his lead. The dozens of stage kisses they had shared had quietly charmed him again and again, making him wonder each time if she felt the same. These ardent kisses gave her answer, satisfying curiosity and moving him to wish for more—much more.

Still holding the palm of one hand against her jawline, Benedict traced his fingertips in light little circles beneath her ear, then against the side of her neck. Vicki gasped softly and craned her neck enough to allow him to brush those fingertips upon her throat; she answered those delicate little strokes by flexing her fingers throughout his hair, drawing a satisfied groan from him.

“Dear god, Vicki,” he declared, sighing hard, and then nipping softly at her bottom lip, “I’ve wanted to do this for a long while now. Kiss you for real…”

“Oh?” she asked, catching his lower lip between her teeth and tugging back slowly, in a heavenly tease so familiar that he wondered if he’d dreamed this moment before, or if it was so like those dreams that it amounted to the same. “Then you must’ve been reading my mind again,” she told him, her rich contralto sending a shiver through his core.

Any alarm that should have sounded in his mind was not enough to make him turn away; the texture of her lips as they met his again and again, the little sounds she made that spoke her delight, the hungry insistence of her hands upon his skin and in his hair, and how she gave way to his every advance—all made it impossible to for him to deny himself the sweetness that she offered. Surely he was damning himself in the worst of ways.

 _Then let me be damned_ , he told himself as he finally began to kiss his way slowly from just below her ear and along her neck to the tender hollow of her throat. “Somehow I knew,” he murmured against her flesh, “I just knew you would be this soft…soft and so…so beautifully yielding…” Vicki moaned her reply, offering no challenge as he fingered open the top buttons of her blouse, the heat of her skin beneath urging him on. Running his parted lips along her exposed collarbone, painting her skin with the secret he’d tried fruitlessly to hide, Benedict admitted his guilty truth amidst moist, warm kisses, “My brilliant, beautiful Virgilia…you…and all your softness. In your quietest times _and_ at your boldest…and…and at _every_ moment in between. Not even trying, but filling my head with hopeless wishes. Filling my heart to overflow with wanting to make you mine.” His voice cracked and he breathed hard, stripped naked of the façade he’d so carefully tried to maintain, “And here, now, making me want to forget myself…forget everything except how you taste…and the scent of you…and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing…”

“Oh god…” she whispered, rooting her fingers their deepest into his curls, to massage firm circles on his scalp. His lips went slack against her skin as he gave himself over to the delicious, distracting sensation. Though Vicki could not have known, it was ever a point of weakness for him--and far too long since he’d been touched that way. Only her voice, plaintive with an unexpected plea, brought him back to focus.

“Please, Ben…” Such a halting, husky entreaty, as she let her head fall back against the sofa cushion “Please…you shouldn’t be saying these things…and…and, heaven help me, I…I shouldn’t be hearing them…” She trailed off unevenly, punctuating her plea with a woeful sigh.

He rolled his head back, watching her closely, ready to soothe away her misgivings. “Vicki. My dear…” he sighed a little, enjoying the power that just _speaking_ her name had to make him go all weak inside; smiling, as well, at how soft she looked as he said it—now, and dawning on him too, every time he’d said it since their luncheon at _Flat Iron_. “…Vicki. It’s only the truth,” he assured her, “And honestly--I’m tired of pretending I _don’t_ feel this way.” Then even more patiently, while entirely sure of his instinct, “And I know you well enough to know that you…you feel it too.”

Vicki nodded her head slightly, a sad mix of relief and resignation coloring her features. Benedict cradled her face in his hands, peppering her mouth and cheeks with gentler kisses than earlier--that grew bolder soon enough, moving ever downward to wander across the bare swell of her breasts. When he finally slid his right hand from her shoulder to cup her through the light cotton fabric of her blouse and her bra beneath, she gasped sharply against his ear, then exhaled her delight; without pause, he circled the pad of his thumb over her nipple, drawing it to a tight little peak, making her whimper and press herself against him. “Ben,” she crooned from the deep of her throat, “…my beautiful Ben…my Benedict…” drawing his given name out like a caress, savoring it on her lips as though it was the sweetest flavor in the world.

Her lips, her lips, her kiss-swollen lips; how he needed to taste them again! And the swirl of her tongue against his. His every sense cried out for more, urgent with need now that the barrier of their propriety had been broached. Tilting his head up, he noted the alluring blush on the skin of her chest and neck, feeling a primal sort of triumph at the colour he had drawn upon her—the rub of his stubble, coupled with the bruise of his passionate kisses, reddening her tender flesh. Softer then, he must proceed, smoothing his mouth on a gentler journey back to hers.

Then his lips were against hers once more, and Benedict could feel her small smile for just a moment before she took his tongue into her mouth, teasing him with a steady, gentle suction that tested his resolve to keep their pace a slow burn. Vicki moved her hands to hold his face, tracing her fingertips feather light upon its contours, as though memorizing each feature by touch alone. After weeks and weeks of imagining—and of wanting but denying the possibilities--the sweet fervor of her kisses and the quiet hunger of her caresses were already so much better than the little fantasies he had allowed himself. And certainly the promise of even greater pleasures to come.

With little effort, he’d undone the remaining buttons of her blouse, while she suckled along the length of his clavicle, careful to leave only the lightest of telltale marks upon his skin. Leaving his left hand buried in her hair, Benedict pushed aside her blouse, splaying his large palm across her ribs—discovering how surprisingly small and delicate her frame was—and then slid his long, artful fingers under the band of her bra. Tender yet firm, her lace-encased flesh, hot and heaving as he dandled her, awakening a greed in him that mere touches could not satisfy. “Want you,” he growled against her ear, fingering the hard bud of her nipple, eliciting from her a sweet yelp of pleasure. Like lightening, he moved his hand from her hair, to work her other breast with equal dedication, his mouth still pressed against her ear and telling her, “Want to put my hands all over you.” Panting her name while he pressed his advantage, squeezing her harder while she panted back. “Want _your_ hands all over _me_ …,” he demanded, grazing her earlobe lightly, dizzy with impatience for her to comply, “…my sweet, sweet Virgilia…” Knowing she was his, grateful she was his, no longer to just imagine, but to know her intimately and for real.

Seeking his flesh just as eagerly, Vicki raked his tee shirt up and circled her hands around to fully explore the musculature of his back. Kneading the flesh between his shoulder blades with her slim, confident fingers, while he left a love bite, low and towards the back of her neck, where it would be hidden by the fall of her hair. Spreading her hands over his shoulders, gripping them hard and purring her appreciation, as he nosed his way to the soft curve of her shoulder, one hand caught in her hair, and the other pulling her bra strap down, allowing him to cover her skin there with hot, sloppy kisses. Vicki, stroking the angles of his scapulae, daringly admitting in throaty whispers all the ways she’d been longing to touch him and to taste him, then running the backs of her fingers along his spine before fanning her hands across his lower back, and holding on tight when Benedict nuzzled the crook of her breasts. Then—ah then!--pulling him even tighter to her when he finally centered his mouth over one cup of her bra, sucking hard through the lace, drawing a gasping ‘ _yes_ ’ from her lips when he flicked the tip of his tongued repeatedly across the stiffened bud of her nipple.

When her hands reached the small of his back—maddening him with the electric tease of her fingertips straying just below the waistband of his trousers, Benedict began pressing Vicki to lay back and beneath him, certain of their course, but fighting the urge to go too fast. Everything, _everything_ , felt so good, so right, and so long overdue, that he couldn’t imagine a more ideal coming together for them.

Anticipating how very good it was going to be—at last, at long last—a stray thought sounded at the back of his mind: protection. He hadn’t thought to bring protection. Well he wouldn’t have; he had not come here tonight with any true hope of making love to her. At least that fact would temper the guilt that must surely come with the light of day—he hoped, anyway. And surely Vicki _must_ have some form of birth control at hand, or at the very least, be taking an oral contraceptive.

Several moments passed before Benedict realized that her hands had faltered in their bold exploration of his body, and several more before he felt her trembling beneath him. Not with pure desire, either, for she was whimpering softly against his shoulder, withdrawing her hands…and worse still, weakly pushing him away. His heart sank when he finally understood what she was saying.

Nearly inaudible at first, her protestation grew stronger by the moment between long gulps for air, as she sought to disentangle herself from his keen embrace. “No, not like this. Please, Ben…we can’t. Not like this…”

Dazed with confusion and immediate disappointment, he sat up and slid to the other end of the sofa. Suddenly ashamed, throbbing with wanting her still, shocked at her reactions, he needed that space between them to sort through the rush of emotions swirling through him. He let his eyes steal her way, watched silently as Vicki pulled her blouse closed, unable to do the buttons for the tremor in her hands. Anxiety pierced him as he took in the sight of her, shaken, disheveled, painfully beautiful in her _dishabille_. His marks all over her—tangled hair, bruised lips, the flush in her cheeks and on her neck refusing to fade just yet. Benedict could barely look at her, stuttering out the fear that gripped him, “I…I…christ, Vicki…I…didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She appeared on the verge of tears, looking down and letting the curtain of her hair hide her face. Hide her…shame? How could _she_ feel shame—for what they both had wanted so desperately? He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it to rest on the back of his neck, growing angry with himself, “I’m…I’m sorry…I…I thought you wanted me too…”

”Oh Ben…I do!” Her voice cracked as she struggled for words. “I do…I want you more than anyone in…oh, forever it seems…more than good sense and my own good name mean to me…enough to dare _everything_ I hold dear…but not…not like this….not so long as you’re…” She paused and shook her head roughly, fighting the tears hard now, “...not so long as you’re obligated _elsewhere_ …” Then, finding her calm despite the tears that she couldn’t escape, Vicki finally looked to him, “I’ve done this before, I know how this goes, and I won’t be doing it again.” Seeing the question in his eyes before he could voice it, “ _This_ , Ben…this wanting someone who can _never_ be mine.” And then so quietly that it was almost to herself, “This all too impossible thing.” She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a sob.

Benedict watched her quietly, unsure of himself, unsure he could give her the comfort she deserved, being the very cause of her grief. And her pain was his pain as well, not only knowing how close he’d come to wronging both women he held dear, but by the denial of what he longed to share with her. An impossible situation—one he had never faced before, never even considered becoming enmeshed in.

Tentative, he moved closer, until he was at Vicki’s side, thigh to thigh and wanting so to put his arm around her shoulder, but holding himself in check until she showed him she would welcome that. “In all the ways that matter, love, I _am_ yours.” He cursed himself that the knowledge of it was so tardy in coming. “And have been for some time. I’m…I’m clearer about that now than ever, and no matter what happens from here, I’m…I’m yours.”

Vicki stiffened beside him, “Please,” she exclaimed, “just stop, Ben. Please.” She turned to him, her eyes doleful and leaving him speechless, so that she continued, “We _both_ know that no matter how wonderful this feels, there are truths we can’t ignore. And you know damn well that you _really_ aren’t mine.” She closed her eyes, sighing hopelessly, then softened to him, “My dearest Ben, you may mean these things you’re saying right now...and everything you’re feeling…but…”

He caught her hands in his, protesting earnestly, “I do, Vicki. Every word. Please…please believe me.”

She shook her head vehemently, doing her best to deny the truth he spoke. “Then you’ll come to _regret_ saying these things, tomorrow or some other time soon.” Vicki huffed a forced little laugh, belittling her own feelings, “It’s the wine and the time of night, you see. And I’m a weak, weak woman despite how I try to do better…and…and surely nothing good can come from this. In the end, it’s just…well, it’s simply…impossible.” She pressed one hand against her brow—wearily, so wearily—and bowed her head, unable or unwilling to remonstrate any further.

But the ache in her voice was all the truth he needed, contradicting what she’d said and moving him to want her even more--to quell the loneliness he’d _known_ all along lived at her core, so very like his own. It was part and parcel of what made them who they were; the need that brought them to the art that gave them solace—to slip the untouchable solitude not only by becoming someone else for a time, but by exorcising the melancholy away, fuel for their performing.

Benedict waited several heartbeats, choosing his words carefully, “You’re so warm and real, Vicki. And I’ve thought about you like this for some time now, wondering, hoping, that you’ve wanted this too. Does it have to be impossible?” He ran his fingertips from the crook of her elbow, along the sensitive flesh of her inner arm to her wrist, then brought it to his lips to softly kiss her pulse point. His breath was warm and moist upon her skin, and Vicki inhaled sharply, but did not pull away. Gently then--to allay her skittishness--he allowed his lips to blaze a soft trail, brushing them first upon her wrist and then her open palm.

And then, despite the resolve he could read in her features and the very way she held herself, she gave him the smallest of sad smiles, tripping up his heart, and unwittingly insuring that it did indeed belong to her, no matter what happened for them down the road. “For now, love,” she replied huskily, cupping her palm against his cheek, “Can you live with that?”

“For now, love,” he answered, feeling it was safe enough now to hold her without remorse, “I can live with _whatever_ you need me to do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This was a long time coming; finally seeing the story from Ben's pov. As you may know, Kind Reader, this fiction was inspired by another, written for me as a contest prize by a wonderful author--who has allowed me the indulgence of continuing. I must say that she never intended for things to go even this far between Virgilia & Benedict, but I simply cannot help myself. Blame it on my proclivity for hopeless romanticism. Blame it on me being a lonely soul who wants someone, somewhere, to have their great love, even if those days are done for me. If I had written this without the wonderful strictures that Cinderella1181 ( http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderella1181/pseuds/Cinderella1181) provided in her ficlet, I would be far less disciplined, and these two not-yet-lovers would already have done the deed. This is teaching me to be a far better writer (I hope!) & I humbly hope it shows in my work. I thank you for reading, and ask your continued patience as the rest of their story plays out. <3


	9. 'tis the lark and not the nightingale

His first thought upon waking was how neatly Vicki fit against him and how natural it felt to hold her—followed swiftly by the guilty realization that he should not have allowed himself to fall asleep at all, in this place where he didn’t rightly belong.  Benedict lay stretched out on her sofa, head cushioned against the armrest, while cradling her soft, sleeping form loosely in his arms.

Vicki stirred a bit and snuggled against him as she began to wake, an instinctive sort of response to finding herself held so warmly.  But she stiffened quickly upon recognizing the forbidden nature of his embrace.  “Oh god…” she muttered, surprise mixed with quiet despair, although she made no move away from him, “What time is it?”

Subconsciously, Benedict held her even closer, clinging for just a little bit longer to the illusion they had allowed themselves through the dark of night.  Weak daylight filtered through the semi-sheer curtains of the sliders to her balcony, giving him a hint of an answer. “Still early, I think,” he yawned, stretching a little, but not enough to prompt Vicki to move out of his arms.

He honestly hadn’t meant to stay the whole night through, but best of intentions was not an acceptable excuse.  Having restrained themselves before going well too far—and having bared their desperate truths to one another—Vicki and Benedict had reached an understanding, albeit difficult, which they hoped would allow them to move discreetly forward.  He hadn’t a single regret about finally revealing the nature and depth of his feelings to her; and he still rejoiced inside that she had admitted the truth of her own.  Both knew this was no passing fancy, born of circumstance and mere physical attraction—this was that life-changing kind of love, the kind which gripped you relentlessly, shaking you to the core, and forcing you into whatever choices became necessary to make a life together a reality.  The kind of love whose fulfillment far outweighed—for the lovers themselves—the remorse of breaking trust, and the cost in tears which it might exact upon those left behind in its wake.

Benedict had thought it best to end things with Viola as soon as possible, sure that she must know--on some level—that they had finally reached an impasse that could not be surmounted.  There would be no need to bring Vicki into their discussion, for truthfully she was _not_ the reason for their break-up; and he knew there would be pain--on both their parts—for letting go was no small thing, after the happy years they had spent together.  He wished only the best for Viola, hoping she would take this opportunity to make the move to LA and build the future that she wanted.

“But we can’t… _you_ can’t…make a break like this in the midst of our run.”  Vicki had insisted, honestly compassionate towards the younger woman. “Viola loves you, Ben.  Even if it’s marred by all your difficulties now, she still does.  And this could very well devastate her.”  He had nodded, but remained silent as those first pangs of real guilt pricked his conscience.  Vicki continued, gentle but certain in her reasoning, “And since we all still have to work together, it could spell disaster for _Shrew_ , don’t you think?”

Although all he really wanted to do was pull her to him again—so to cover every inch of her skin with hungry kisses, and begin to learn all the precious secrets of her body—Benedict had to concede to her wisdom, for the sake of the production, and to soften for a time the inevitable blow that Viola would feel.  And given how things had been between himself and Viola for some time now, he hoped it possible that Viola would end things on her own.

Yet with months still left ahead for the production, working so closely would be tempting their restraint—forcing them to temper the new found joy of having discovered a true companion soul, with more prudent behavior.  Seeing each other every day, sharing their creative rhythm, but being ever bound by the need to be circumspect.  To touch, to kiss, to hold, impossible.  And always to guard against the gaze that lasts too long.  But they were Actors after all, at the peak of their craft, and so they believed that they could manage even this exacting performance.

Vicki had been very clear about their boundaries, and Benedict had agreed to her terms without objection, for it was enough to know that only a finite time stood between them and a future together.  “I don’t have it in me to be ‘the other woman’,” she had confessed, eyes lowered and watching him twine the fingers of both his hands with hers, “I can’t…I’m just not built that way.”  She sighed and looked back to him, “And if you think about it, you’re not built that way, either.  Not if…not if you’re the man I think you are.  Not if you’re the man who’s made me feel this way.”  Her tender faith in him was warm consolation and a balm to the ache he felt to have the situation resolved _now_ —not only for their own sake, but for Viola’s as well.

With these hardest questions settled—at to keep temptation at bay--Benedict had been prepared to go; but Vicki surprised him, by asking him to stay just a little while longer.  “You’re not fit to drive just yet, Ben,” she had told him plainly, “You should stay until you’re safe to drive.”  She’d looked so hopeful and so sad despite her small, brave smile, he would have stayed even if he was stone cold sober.  When he consented, his heart swelled happily at the pretty relief that lit her face.

And so he cleared away the bottles and their wine stems, bringing Vicki a glass of water so that she could take something to ease the discomfort of her injury.  Setting her glass on the coffee table, she patted the cushion beside her; demure and wide-eyed, she poised a further request.  “I know we’ve sworn to behave ourselves, but since you’re staying a while yet, maybe you could hold me just a bit?”

Pleased that she had asked--for he had been thinking the same—he chuckled, then answered, “Nothing would make me happier, love.”  Settling beside her, Benedict leaned back into the corner of the couch, opened both of his arms to her, and invited her near, “C’mere then.”  Vicki scooted over, nestling her head against his shoulder and laying her hand on his chest, just above his heart.

Holding her close, he felt a sense of calm, of rightness, filling him, driving away his concerns about how they might fare in the weeks and months ahead.  “This is nice,” he murmured, not wishing to disturb the peaceful feel of their connection, nor the quiet of the room, while memorizing dozens of dear little details about her for when they must stay at arms’ length from one another. 

She drew a deep breath and hmmm’d in agreement, snuggling against him fully.  “It’s a little bit of heaven, Ben,” she murmured back, “I suppose…I suppose I’ve always known it would be this way…”  She trailed off with a contented sigh, which echoed the quiet satisfaction that spread its warmth throughout his chest.  Eventually, while listening to her breathing slow and even out, and matching its relaxing rhythm with his own, Benedict realized that Vicki was drifting off to sleep in his arms.  Well she should, he thought; between the medication and the wine, and the emotional whirlwind that had transpired between them, she had to be exhausted—and he was only too glad that his arms could be her sanctuary.

The last conscious thought he had, before nodding off himself, was how marvelously soft her hair was as he kissed the crown of her head, marking the lush scent of sweet fruit and light citrus forever in his mind as most especially hers.                     

At some point as they half-slept, they had apparently adjusted their positions to these more comfortable, natural ones, but Benedict outright refused to feel guilty about this most innocent trespass, vowing instead to keep the memory golden through the long months ahead, until such awakenings were commonplace for them. He remembered sharing murmured endearments in the dark, and Vicki laying soft, chaste kisses on his cheek and along his jaw.  He recalled stroking her hair while she slept, imagining a not too distant night when the silk of it would finally lay across his chest, with not even a wisp of fabric between them.  And he reflected—briefly—on how inevitably they had been drawn together, comforted back down to sleep by the future he envisioned they would share.                        

But with morning came reality, and the time to put pay to their decisions of the night before; yet to make a start of pulling away seemed the most difficult task he’d faced in years.

As ever--so it seemed--Vicki voiced exactly what he was feeling, “Oh bollocks, this is going to be much harder than what we thought last night.”  Sadly resigned, she withdrew from his embrace, running her hands through her hair as she sat up, “I must look a fright though…but at least that should make it easier for you to walk out that door.”  Her chipper tone was too thin to mask the sorrow she felt for the parting to come.

Although the emotional gamut they had run had them both worse for wear, he saw only a vulnerable, fragile beauty that defied their difficulties.  “Honesty, Vicki,” he replied, managing a crooked smile for her sake, “You’re the loveliest sight I’ve ever woken to.”  In answer to the disbelief that shaded her brow, he quickly added, “And I mean that, love, with all my heart.”

“Mother warned me not to believe the honeyed tongues of men,” she told him, her skeptical smirk growing into a soft, pleased smile, “But from you, a single word’s enough to make me forget good common sense.”

Diffidently, he ducked his head and shrugged, glad to see he had lightened her mood.  “We’re quite the pair now, aren’t we?”  He caught her hand in his and leaned in to kiss her fingertips, then looked up into her eyes, “I’d give just about anything to have it be November now.  I don’t think that I can stand the wait.”

“Oh, Ben,” she whispered, tracing her fingertips along his jawline.  “Dear Ben.  You can, you will,” Vicki drew a helpless sigh, “You must.”

* * *

 

 

Things having been settled, they both knew that further delay would be useless, yet they lingered still.  Benedict asked her several times, and in various ways, if she could manage the rest of the weekend on her own (hoping, of course, that she’d give him the convenient excuse to stay).  Vicki assured him repeatedly that she would be fine; she’d call Phe if she needed any help.  Her kitchen was stocked enough to see her through; there were several unread books that she’d been meaning to catch up on; and she promised to keep off her feet as much as possible, for she didn’t plan to miss Monday’s rehearsal and the start of “hell week”.

Seeing him to the door at last, she reminded him of the pledge she’d exacted from him:  that once he stepped across her threshold, they would not speak about their evening together until his business with Viola was settled.

“To be fair to Viola,” she had urged him in the aftermath of their declarations, “To be absolutely as fair as she deserves.  We’ll go forward as cast mates and colleagues…”

“And friends…” he chided.

“Friends at arms-length,” Vicki insisted, “Never closer than that.”  In the face of his disappointment, she admitted how hard it would be to pretend she didn’t long for him to hold her.  And that watching Viola at his side was going to test her daily.  “But I promise you—I can wait.”  She had laid her hand against his cheek, her eyes wide and earnest and hopeful, “I _will_ wait. Because you’re worth _every_ moment of the wait ahead.”  Vicki’s breath had hitched as she considered her right to call him her own, “My darling, beautiful Benedict.”

Still, standing at her door now, ready but loathe to depart, he was already regretting that promise.  Vicki was smiling up at him, trying her best to make this easier for him—yet once again, her eyes gave her true feelings away.  She shuddered when he laid his hands on her shoulders, immediately reminding him that they’d agreed he should make a clean exit.

But to the contrary, Benedict was prepared to use whatever persuasion necessary to take her in his arms one last time.  He rested his forehead against hers, quietly defying her expectation, “Virgilia, _that_ vow was never set in stone.”

Vicki laughed at that; rich, full laughter that he’d come to adore, and which he recognized now as her willing concession—and exactly the music he needed to hear before leaving the haven of her little flat.  She smoothed her hand against his cheek, delighting one last time in the texture and warmth of his skin.  Benedict breathed deep and closed his eyes, relishing her touch and storing even the smallest of sensations in his memory to brace him through the months of denial ahead. 

“Oh, Ben,” she sighed, fully and softly relenting to his wishes, and draping both arms around his neck, “Kiss me now.  With all your heart.  Kiss me please, and make it a good one, because I need to fix the taste of you in my mind for all the nights ahead when sleep won’t come, for want of kissing you.” 

He met her request gladly, taking her face in both hands and laying his lips upon hers, for many slow deep kisses, quite the opposite of their urgent, heated kisses of the night before.  These were kisses meant to see them through the weeks and months of summer ahead, kisses meant to satisfy well into the cool of fall, so to get them through the lean times between this day and the day when they would finally be allowed to claim one another publically. 

If asked later, neither would be able to say how long they stood there, locked together, lost a little longer in affirming their bond; and certain—for that span of time at least—that they could master the challenges ahead.  That everything they felt for one another would simply be enough to overcome whatever obstacles the world outside her door might bring to bear.  Naïve as it was, they truly believed that patience and prudence were all that was needed to ensure that the course of their love would run smooth.  

 

_(to be continued)_


	10. "how poor are they that have not patience"

Agnes had waited until mid-afternoon before texting her; Vicki was surprised that her bright, inquisitive friend had delayed even that long.  But she was _not_ surprised to see Agnes get straight to the point.

“ _Heard about what happened at rehearsal yesterday. Are you alright?_ ”       

Vicki grinned as she typed her answer, “I’m fine. X-rays showed no breaks. Just bruised, swollen & sore.”

“ _Well, that’s fortunate! You keeping off of it? You can’t miss any rehearsals this week.”_

“Yes, mother, I know. I’m resting up at my flat.”

“ _Good.  I’m coming over with takeaway. Half-hour?_ ”

Company--and a hot meal she didn’t have to fix for herself--suited Vicki perfectly, “Brilliant idea. I’ll buzz you up when you get here, and leave my door unlocked.”

“ _Toodles_ ,” came Agnes’ simple reply, followed a moment later with a bit of a tease, “ _Do try to behave until I get there,_ ” punctuated with a winking emoji.

Forty-five minutes later, Agnes texted again from curbside, giving Vicki time to hobble over and unlatch her door.  She returned to her place on the sofa to await her friend’s arrival.

“Darling,” Agnes exclaimed, panting with exaggeration as she swept into the room, arms laden with Thai takeaway and a bottle of Riesling, “That climb gets longer each time I visit.  However did you manage all those stairs on a sprained foot?”

“I, um…I had a bit of help on the way up,” Vicki replied, aiming to sound casual and as innocent as could be.  _And please don’t ask for details_ , Vicki thought; _please don’t make me have to fib too much_.

Agnes seemed to take her answer well enough; she placed the Thai containers and the wine bottle on the coffee table.  “Well, don’t get up, dear.  I’ll grab some plates and glasses from the kitch, and we can tuck right in, alright?”

Vicki nodded obediently, grateful her friend had chosen not to ask the obvious follow-up question, and hoping she could escape further inquiry regarding who’d helped her up those stairs.  It would be best for all concerned to let that answer lie unspoken.

Agnes returned shortly, setting down two dishes, and several utensils to serve the makeshift buffet onto their plates.  “There we go.  Now, goblets for the wine…and a corkscrew?” she asked.

“Glasses in the cabinet next to the fridge,” Vicki replied, then realizing she wasn’t sure where Benedict had left the later item, followed up with her best guess, “Corkscrew is probably on the counter somewhere.”

“Got it.”  Quickly retrieving the items, Agnes handed Vicki the bottle and opener, “You do the honors, okay?”

With the wine poured and their plates full, the women settled down to eat.  Vicki wondered at her friend’s unusual silence, for she had expected to be grilled about the circumstances of her accident—especially regarding Benedict’s involvement.  Her reprieve from questioning didn’t last long.

Agnes broke the easy silence, asking in the most nonchalant way, “So?”  Her eyes were fixed on Vicki, her expression quite amused.

“Soooo…what?” Vicki countered, fully ready to play the innocent.

Agnes wore a quirky little smile, “Just how _did_ you manage to sprain your foot?”

Vicki aimed to sound blasé, “I’m sure someone must’ve told you already, Agnes.”  

“Well, of course I heard a thing or two,” Agnes conceded, “But I’m sure that’s not the whole story…or is it?”

Vicki shrugged, downplaying the details, taking care not to reveal too much, “It was just a stupid accident.  Our timing was off a bit, and momentum carried me right along—until I smashed my foot against one of the stage right risers.  Hurt like hell at first, but…well, I’m just glad I got off easy with it.”

“Uh-huh,” Agnes nodded, twirling noodles onto her fork, “And Benedict was kind enough to take you to hospital.”  She paused, and Vicki swore she could see the wheels turning in her head.  “And waited with you.  And brought you home.  And helped you up all those stairs, I’m guessing.”

“Well…yes.  Of course he did.”  If her friend was implying an ulterior motive to his actions, Vicki was more than ready to defend the thoughtful generosity of his character, “Kindness is second-nature to him, Agnes—you know that.”

She grinned back, “I know, Vicki.  I know.  And it’s a big part of why you’ve fallen so hard for him.”  Vicki looked away, bashful, yet smiling at the simple truth her friend had stated so definitively.  “Not judging,” Agnes continued, “I’m just wondering what happened _after_ you invited him in.  Because I pulled these _two_ clean glasses from the dish drainer—and I noticed _two_ empty wine bottles in the bin—so I’m guessing that you weren’t drinking alone last night.”

Vicki admitted with a wry smile that Agnes’s deduction was correct, “I should’ve known I couldn’t fool you.  Let’s just hope I do a better job of it come Monday morning.”

“Well, you can trust that no one will hear a peep about it from me.”  Agnes hushed her voice as a promise of confidentiality, “Now, please…tell me what happened between you two.” 

With her cover so deftly blown, Vicki actually felt grateful to be able to share her secret happiness with just one person.  “Something marvelous, my wise and curious friend,” she sighed, “Something I had truly believed would be impossible.”

Agnes’s eyes went round as saucers, and she gasped with delight, “I knew it! I knew it the moment I saw you.  You’re all soft looking and doe-eyed…”

“Hold on now, Agnes,” Vicki interjected, laughing lightly, “I took something for the pain earlier, and it’s just given me a nice buzz.”  She lifted her glass and added, “Even before the wine here.  It really could be just as innocent as that.”

“Rigggggght,” she responded, popping up from her chair to sit next to Vicki on the sofa, “No pill for pain put _that_ blush in your cheeks just now.”  Agnes studied her closely, “You…wow!  Oh my god…you two did it, didn’t you?”

“No, no we did not,” she asserted immediately.  Agnes looked skeptical, making Vicki add, “I swear to you, Agnes, we _didn’t_ go that far.”

Still eyeing Vicki keenly, Agnes clucked her tongue.  “Alright, dear—but I’ll bet you both wanted to.”  She grabbed the wine and refilled both their glasses, then settled down beside Vicki, “Details.  Now.  And don’t even try to hold anything back—I’m not leaving until you tell me everything.”  She paused, then repeated dramatically, “ _Everything._ ”

* * *

 

“…and I suppose we both had known for…for a while now—on some level, anyway—that given the right circumstances, we _could_ easily cross that line.”  Vicki sighed, refusing to regret a moment of her time with Benedict.  “Oh, Agnes…it felt like heaven in his arms!”

“I can hear it in your voice, Vicki,” Agnes nodded, “And it’s written clearly on your face.  But you didn’t…you didn’t give in altogether?”

“No. We could have, though,” Vicki closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the sofa, remembering vividly all the sinful, delicious details of the evening past, “And god, how I _wanted_ to…and he _absolutely_ wanted to…” She shivered with longing, and for a moment it was as though Benedict was in the room with her again, and the hunger of the night before ached anew in her chest.  “But we didn’t.  We couldn’t. Because…” Vicki’s voice grew low, thoughtful, serious and a little sad, “…because when we finally do, it _has_ to be with no encumbrances.  He will be free and clear of Viola.  We agreed; because we can’t start _our_ life together properly if our foundation is built on a lie.”

“Of course, honey,” Agnes assured her, gently patting Vicki’s arm, “You made the right decision.”

Vicki ran both hands through her hair, recalling again the feel of _his_ exquisite hands in her hair, and all the forbidden caresses that had followed.  Nothing in recent memory—nothing, even in the decade since she’d left university—had ever felt as right to her as those stolen hours with Benedict.  Thankful not only for the clarity which those hours had granted them, but for the gift of speaking it aloud to an understanding soul, she revealed her most heartfelt truth, her voice breaking with joyful tears, “This is for all the marbles, Agnes.  He’s the one.  I’ve never felt this strongly for anyone.  Not even Tom, at our best of times.”  She gave a shaky sigh, trying to calm the racing of her heart, “And we…we _have_ to get this right.  Honestly…I think I’ll die inside if we don’t work this out properly…”

Agnes squeezed her hand, a little swept up in her friend’s evident passion, “I’m thrilled for you, Vicki.  You’re…you’re glowing.  And from the way I’ve seen him look at you—well, this _was_ inevitable.”  She gritted her teeth, ready to add another inevitable, but sobering, fact, “But the timing is terrible, don’t you think?  Viola is bound to walk out on the production…isn’t she?”

“Which is why you have to swear silence about everything I’ve told you, Agnes.  Not another soul can know.”  Vicki explained the decision they’d reached, and the promises she and Benedict had exchanged.  As she spoke, Agnes’s look of delight began to fade, replaced with a guise of doubt that troubled Vicki.  “What?  What’s wrong?”

Agnes shook her head, managing to grin for Vicki’s sake, “Nothing, dear.  I’m sure your plan will work out just as you hope.”

Vicki’s sense of alarm was piqued, “But?”  Agnes merely looked away.  “C’mon now, out with it.  I can see you have misgivings.  Please,” she implored her, “Tell me what I’m missing.  Are we…am I…foolish to believe we can work our way through these obstacles?”

Agnes breathed deeply, resigned to speak her reservations, despite the discomfort it might bring.  “It’s only…well, three months is an awfully long time to keep a secret like this.  Someone will be bound to notice, as well as you two _try_ to hide your feelings.  And…” She hesitated, wincing at the apprehension she read in Vicki’s eyes, “And Viola’s a clever girl—she’s likely to catch on well before November—don’t you think?”

* * *

 

Vicki found herself uneasy and restless in the wake of her conversation with Agnes.  Forced to reconsider Viola’s place in the triangle, she felt troubled for their future prospects.  And although her friend had done her best to reassure her--once she had aired her own concerns--Vicki couldn’t shake a sense of impending doom.  Of hopes dashed despite the best of intentions.  Of a loss that would break her heart irretrievably.  Berating herself for being naively optimistic, she began to question her choices of the day before—eventually zeroing in on one she would now take back in a heartbeat.

Burying her face against the pillow cushion where Benedict had rested his head while they slept—the trace of his dear scent lingering still, the only comfort she could find—Vicki sobbed quietly, regretting that she had sent him away unsatisfied.  _What if_ , she asked herself, _what if that was our best_ _chance…our only chance…to make love_?  What if her sincere desire to be honorable gave him the time and space to reconsider what he wanted?  What if he discovered in the meantime that it really _was_ just the wine and their unique situation and the tendency of people, who by their very profession, tended to dramatize their feelings when the moment allowed for it?  Could the cool light of day and the intervening hours cause him to doubt that this was a soulmate kind of love, enough to make it necessary to throw away an existing, committed relationship?  Fallen from the heights of happiness, Vicki couldn’t have felt more despair. 

Nearly despondent, she almost ignored the text chime of her mobile—but quickly realized, it was Benedict’s text alert.  Vicki palmed the tears from her cheeks, swallowed her fears, and clicked on his message.

“ _Hey there, love.  How are you feeling tonight?_ ”

“ _Love_ ”…then he _hadn’t_ changed his mind; relief flooded her system—though she tried to play it cool. “I’m good.  Relaxed, but anxious to get back to work.  Catching up on my reading.  How are you?”

“ _Missing you like crazy. And looking for any excuse to come over._ ”

Though a rush of happiness thrummed through her, Vicki knew she must be disciplined.  Regretfully, she keyed her reply, “Ben, we promised not to do this.”

His response was nearly immediate.  “ _Give me an excuse, Vicki. Please._ ”

All she wanted was to give him just that, but still she restrained herself.  “You know that I can’t. You know what we decided.”

“ _So--tell me you would, if the choice was yours to make_.”

How could she not adore him all the more for his determination!  And if this was Benedict on just the first day of the long wait ahead of them, how was she to resist his future temptations, which were bound to be even more insistent?  “You’re impossible, you know.”

“ _Yes, I know. And still, I’d have you say it. Please, love_.”

Such was his way, easily short circuiting her resolution to behave.  “Alright then--yes. Yes, I would if I could, Ben. With all my heart, I would.”

“ _And with all my heart, I’d be holding you now if I could._ ”

Vicki stared down at his text, breathless and marveling; rationally, she knew that Benedict couldn’t be aware of how badly she craved the reassurance he was giving her—exactly when she needed it most--nor the comfort that came along with his simple words.  Yet here he was, answering her fears and her unasked questions as though even at a distance, he knew the workings of her mind and heart.  “I know, my darling,” she told him, “And I’d happily lose myself in your arms.”

“But,” she added, “Only patience and discretion are going to get us there.  Meaning you can’t be texting me like this, Ben.”

Her mobile remained silent, so that Vicki guessed he was considering the wisdom of her request.  His answer was not what she expected, but it pleased her all the same.  “ _Perhaps I’m being foolhardy, but at the end of the day I’m going to need this little bit of us to hold on to.  Surely that’s not too much to ask for?_ ”

“As if any part of me could answer ‘no’,” she t’sk’d as she typed, “Just don’t overdo it, okay?”

“ _As you wish.  Although I don’t have the discipline to keep from thinking about you, nearly constantly._ ”

“You’re spoiling me already.  And I don’t have the fortitude to stop you.”

“ _All the better, my sweet_.”  Vicki could easily imagine the dear, lopsided smile that must grace his face at his little concession from her.

“Then I’ll say goodnight for now, Ben.  And remind you again that patience is our watchword.”

“Alas—I suppose you must.  But Monday can’t come fast enough as far as I’m concerned.”

She sighed hard, determined to close the conversation despite the longing his words had stirred in her heart.  “Sweet dreams, my darling.”

“ _They’ll be sweet only if I find you there. Goodnight, love._ ”

Vicki closed her eyes, allowing his image to take shape in her imagination, enjoying even the smallest details that her soul had already memorized before she’s spoken a word of her true feelings.  Not even a day had passed since their confessions, and her resolve was weakening—thanks in large measure to his unfailing charm and irrepressible passion.  Clearly, the responsibility to be careful and cautious would rest primarily upon her shoulders—leaving her to wonder if she truly had the steely strength of will to navigate them both through the fretful shoals they must surpass to reach their hearts destination.


	11. the play's the thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final dress rehearsal & opening night of previews for "The Taming of the Shrew"--and the waiting remains the hardest part.

“That’s it then,” Davies concluded, “Outstanding work, everyone. I couldn’t be more pleased.” A quiet murmur of agreement passed through the ensemble seated at front of house, actors and crew more than ready to leave for the evening. “All I ask now is that you get a good night’s rest and come back tomorrow energized and ready to give your best.” The director turned to Stage Manager Jeffries, “Anything you care to add, Liam?”

The older man shook his head, “Nah, I think we’ve kept them long enough.” He grinned at the small assembly awaiting their official dismissal, “I’d remind you to behave this evening, as I’d hate to see any of you lot arrive back here tomorrow hungover—but I’m pretty sure that’s advice at least half of you will ignore.” His good-hearted jibe was met with a ripple of laughter. “You’ve got your call times, and as professionals I _know_ you’ll be as punctual as can be. The next three weeks may be called previews, but they’re just as sold out as the regular run, and you know well enough that nothing less than your top form will be acceptable.” Jeffries nodded briskly, satisfied his message had reached the ears of those who needed it most. “Now on your way, and if you need to blow off some steam, enjoy yourselves—but be wise about it.”

Vicki remained seated as most around her rose and gathered their things, many discussing plans for the evening as they broke into smaller groups of friends. Phe had left her side to join Derek, who draped an arm around her shoulder absentmindedly, focused on his conversation with the prop master. Vicki had already decided to head straight back to her flat—no partying for her this night, despite several invitations to go out, from various castmates and friends. She’d told them she was simply exhausted, and no one questioned her response—save for Agnes, who had come to read her all too well. That query Vicki answered with a small shake of her head, eyes downcast enough to convey her sad truth—she was just too tired to face an evening watching Benedict carry on with the happy façade of couplehood with Viola.

Returning to the _Apollo Victoria_ on the Monday following her accident had been surprisingly easy.  Filled with quiet confidence and hopes for the future with the man she loved, Vicki’s Kate was buoyant, energetic, and—despite a lingering limp—she hit all her marks with relative ease.  There was a joy she could not hide, even in Kate’s most fiery moments, and it found answer in Benedict’s Petruchio, whose boisterous mirth suited both character and player perfectly.  Each time she met his eye, she felt their bond was reaffirmed—and when he kissed her in their closing scene, there was a lingering that spoke the things they could not say aloud.

Yet when the day was done, there was Viola at his side, prattling happily about their plans for the evening, clearly unaware that Benedict’s heart was hers no longer.  He played along so well that Vicki felt a wisp of doubt try to insinuate itself in the back of her mind, but she shook it off immediately; he was so damn good at his craft, she must expect him to be entirely convincing.  It would just take some getting used to, she reminded herself, even while she watched them leave the theatre arm in arm.

And though she’d sincerely tried to discourage it ( _No_ , she had told herself, _the_ _truth is I only_ halfheartedly _tried to dissuade him_ ) Benedict had texted her that night, and every one thereafter.  Sometimes just to wish her ‘goodnight’ or ‘sweet dreams’, but more often to compliment her on her work that day or tell her how lovely she’d looked—and almost always to remind her that he missed her, longed to hold her, was counting the days until they could finally be together. Vicki quickly came to rely on his sweet little messages to comfort her down to sleep each night, and bolster her determination to carry on with the waiting game they had agreed upon.

Some days though, some days—she soon learned—it was far harder to keep her game face than she’d anticipated.  If Benedict felt the same, Vicki saw no indication, and any feeling of resentment she might have over his seeming ease, she tamped down, ashamed for even a moment of projecting her fears upon his behavior.  Thankfully through it all, the work remained the steady center and anchor of her life.

Ironically—or possibly in a twist of karma—Viola had become friendlier than ever, inviting Vicki to join her and Benedict for lunch several times as opening night drew closer.  Vicki had begged off whenever possible, but eventually _had_ to accept--discovering when she arrived at the restaurant that the younger woman had arranged for a fourth to join them, in a clear attempt at matchmaking.  Vicki reacted graciously, pretending she didn’t know exactly what Viola had intended, navigating her way through the meal and quietly sending the gentleman signals that she wasn’t interested.  Benedict’s texts that night included a wry apology for the unwelcome surprise, though Vicki told him she hadn’t minded, and that it had been well worth that little inconvenience just to spend that extra time with him.

And so she watched them leave the _Apollo Victoria_ together once again, doing her best to keep from speculating as to how they would spend the evening, wrapping her own solitude about her after bidding friends goodnight—well and necessarily resigned to spend a quiet evening at home.  She took the underground back to her place in Chelsea, stopping two streets over to pick up some Italian takeaway.

Hero—recognizing Vicki’s footfall down the hall—greeted her as she opened the door, twining through her legs and meowing loudly for attention and dinner.  “Come along, my darling,” Vicki sighed, leading her cat into the kitchen, “It’s just you and I this evening—but I’ve brought you a special treat.”  She divvied up a side of meatballs and sliced up half a chicken cutlet, setting the plate down for Hero, who attacked the meal greedily.  Vicki picked at her own portion, taking several forkfuls of salad and only a few bites of her pasta, before packing the leftovers away in the fridge; her heart was just not in the meal.

Instead, she poured herself a generous glass of muscato--the very same kind she had shared with Benedict on that night that already seemed forever ago--and headed out onto her balcony to enjoy the balmy evening breeze, and watch the London night light up—for she had always found a bit of comfort in that.  _I’m not sulking_ , she insisted to herself; _it’s only_ _three months more, and he is absolutely worth every moment of the wait_.  Still, Vicki had never felt as lonely as she did this night.  When her mobile chimed a text alert, she hesitated before checking it—for it wouldn’t do for him to think she was pitifully waiting to hear from him; there’d be no dignity in that.

She let it rest a full ten minutes, and then a little more, just to be sure she didn’t rush a reply, and to send Benedict the message that her world did not revolve around him after all.  Yet she couldn’t help but melt a little when she finally read what he had sent.

“ _Don’t know where you ended up this evening,_ _but without you here, I’m_ _just going through the motions._ ”

But she did not let herself answer—it would be best for him to believe all was well with her, and Vicki couldn’t bring herself to lie about how she was feeling.  Instead she brushed her tears away, swallowed the remainder of her wine, and headed back into her flat, seeking her pillow (knowing Hero would soon curl up beside her), to watch some mindless television, and hopefully drift off to sleep.

She had nearly succeeded nodding off, when her phone buzzed again.  This time she checked it right away.  “ _Know this, my dear-”_ he’d written, _“though we’re apart, the best part of me remains with you.  And I’ll not feel whole again until you’re in my arms at last. Goodnight._ ”

What could she say in reply?  Her own words were sure to fall short.  In the end, Vicki sent a bit of poetry that he’d be sure to appreciate.  “ _Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest come to thy heart as that within my_ _breast._ ” 

* * *

Rumbles of thunder ushered Vicki through the theatre door for opening night of previews, and within the hour a torrential rain began to fall—but the company saw no dampening of spirits, the most superstitious among the cast and crew reminding one another that rain on opening night was the very best of luck—and it didn’t affect attendance at all.  Turned out every seat was filled when the curtain finally rose.

Her sister Ophelia had arrived earlier to make sure Vicki’s costumes were in order for the evening, and to preset backstage the pieces she would need for a couple of quick changes; in addition to her PA duties, Phe was filling in as Vicki’s dresser for the run of the production.  She greeted Vicki at her dressing room door, grabbing her arm and tugging her across the threshold, “You’ve been holding out on me, sis,” she chided, too excited to be truly admonishing, “Look at these gorgeous things!”  She stood aside, revealing a generous bouquet of rich-looking, deep pink roses in a crystal vase, set upon the vanity table.  “I’ve been just itching to open that card to see who sent them, and I was about two minutes from giving in and ripping into the damn thing,” she exclaimed, “So c’mon and tell me who they’re from and is he someone I know and why the hell you haven’t mentioned him before!”

Vicki had held her breath the moment she saw the glorious profusion of fragrant pink American beauties, knowing instantly that Benedict had sent them, delighted at first—and then immediately concerned that their cover could be blown.  Put on the spot, she knew her sister would see right through any lie she might tell to protect Benedict’s identity. _You beautiful, foolish man_ , she thought, _do you_ want _the whole world to know about us after all_?

Exhaling calmly, she held out her hand for the cream coloured envelope.  “Well let’s just see, shall we? We can’t have you keeling over from the anticipation, Ophelia dear.”  It was addressed simply “Vicki” in an elegant hand (which she believed had been written by the florist); she slid a finger gingerly beneath the seal, and pulled the little card out (and thankfully again, Ben had been wise enough to not have penned the note himself):

_“Let the world see you for the beautiful diamond you are. The diamond that’s dazzled me from the first day that we met.  Break a leg, love.  xox”_

Such a brief message it was, yet Vicki felt ridiculously happy; it made the privation of the previous evening, and every moment of denial since their stolen night, fade into mere background noise to the beating of her heart.  She reread his message several times more, committing it to memory, before passing the note over to Phe.

“A dazzling diamond, eh,” Phe giggled “Whoever he is, he certainly knows how to lay it on thick.”

Vicki snatched the note back in mock irritation, “Really?  I think it’s quite charming.”  She slipped the note back into its envelope, batting her eyes innocently, “Although it’s a shame that I haven’t a clue who sent it.”

“That’s utter bosh, and you know it,” Phe protested, incredulous, “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”

“Believe…don’t believe,” Vicki shrugged, “That’s all I have to say on the matter.”  She pulled her sister close with one arm around her shoulders, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, “And no amount of wheedling will change that, Phe.  Now please, help me pin up my hair—it’ll take me twice the time otherwise, and you’ve a defter touch than I’ll ever manage.”

“Oh, don’t think this will distract me from the very important question at hand, Virgilia.”  Phe grabbed a hair brush and a packet of bobby pins from the vanity top, and came up behind Vicki who had seated herself before the vanity mirror.  Smirking, the younger woman began to brush her sister’s hair, then separate it into sections, rolling it tight to accommodate the wig cap and wig, “I’ll let it go for now--but trust me, I _will_ figure out who this very generous mystery man is.  I just hope you’ve chosen wisely this time.”

Watching Phe in the mirror, Vicki sighed quietly, resolving to proceed with extra caution in her sister’s presence, so as not to reveal anything of the secret she’d vowed to keep.

* * *

As with all good theatre, the energy of a live audience was the vital, final component necessary for success; the players feeding off their responses, holding for the laugh lines, punching certain pieces of dialogue and actions just that little bit more as they read the crowd’s receptiveness in a constant give and take.  It was the thing which drew even the most successful of screen actors back to the stage, and one of the key reasons Benedict had been keen to sign onto _The Taming of the Shrew_.  But the satisfaction for this job well done went well beyond his own creative fulfillment and the enthusiastic appreciation of the audience.  There was the pleasure of watching his co-star at work, of seeing her shine, and of feeling their connection both as actors and as man to woman; for those brief hours he needn’t worry if he looked at her too long, or too longingly.  And he could touch her; oh so many chances to touch her!  A true innocent _and_ guilty indulgence at the same time.  The secret joy of it warmed him more than a theatre house full of applauding spectators ever could.

The first half of _Shrew_ flowed smoothly, with only an occasional, opening night blip, and nothing that was glaringly obvious. Viola, flush with excitement and adrenaline, rushed to his side at the interval, sticking close by until the call to places came again.  In that short time, Benedict only needed to lock eyes once with Vicki to know she was on his same wave length, happy and fulfilled by their work, and reveling in this first shared performance.

Petruchio and Kate’s closing kiss, and then curtain call, seemed to arrive in a rush after that.  The applause mounted as small groups of actors took the spotlight, playfully interacting in character before turning full front to take their bows.  As the leads, Benedict and Vicki were the last to appear, entering from opposite wings to meet center stage; Kate was haughty and proud, disdainful of Petruchio, so that he took her hand one last time, spun her about and pulled her flush against him.  They held that pose a beat, breathless from the rush, Benedict grinning broadly as he waited for Vicki’s Kate to turn the tables by grabbing his face and kissing him soundly; their little improvisation had been a hit at final dress, and was equally so with this evening’s crowd, eliciting cheers from some in the audience.  Lightly, he then propelled her forward, enabling her to sink into a deep curtsy to the crowd, before bowing himself—the cue for the ensemble to join hands for final bows together.

Exiting the stage together, with only moments to share the fullness of their hearts before a stricter reality would separate them, Benedict embraced Vicki as closely as he dared, whispering against her ear, “You were brilliant, love…perfect in every way.”  She tightened her hold upon him and kissed his cheek, and then backed away for propriety’s sake, smiling at him crookedly before the hearty congratulations of others filled the gap between them.  Inevitable as it was, he hated losing sight of her, especially in their moment of shared triumph.

The backstage, post-performance euphoria spilled naturally into the after-party.  Leaving the theatre, Benedict and Viola had stopped to sign autographs at stage door, but still arrived for the private party at _Good_ _Godfrey’s_ ahead of Vicki.  He’d downed two glasses of champagne, noshing on hors d’oeuvres he barely tasted, eyes drawn back again and again to the main entrance, wondering if she’d decided to skip out on these festivities, as she had the night before—and was relieved at last to see her sally through the door, along with her sister and the company carpenter.  Looking so enchanting with the glow of her success, that just the sight of her was a perfect arrow to his heart—and as she appeared to be searching the room, he hoped it was for him.  Finally spotting him, Vicki smiled brightly and ran a hand through her hair, making certain that he noted she wore one of his perfect pink roses in her loosened tresses. 

Hand on heart, Benedict nodded in acknowledgement--all he could allow himself to do in the midst of the crowd--content enough for a time that if they found no way to have a private word or two this night, that single rose was an avowal of their bond, and a sweet reminder that quiet patience remained the best path to gain their hearts’ desire. 

 


	12. "for love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy"

Early August saw Press Night—traditionally considered the _true_ opening night of any West End production—go off without a hitch.  For Vicki, life had then settled into the quiet, familiar rhythm that characterized her best production experiences.  Packed houses full of bright, appreciative crowds; late nights following performances, first greeting fans at stage door, and then unwinding with friends over post-show suppers and drinks; sleeping in a little longer most mornings--save matinee days--which led to leisurely afternoons, allowing her to conserve her energies towards the exercise of the evening’s work in store for her. 

This schedule, however, meant that she saw less of Benedict than she had during rehearsals, and as they fine-tuned various elements during pick-up rehearsals throughout previews.  She missed him awfully, and in his nightly texts ( _how glad she was she_ _hadn’t insisted he stop that practice!_ ) he let her know he felt the same.  Vicki delighted each time he echoed her thoughts, telling her that he felt happiest, and most alive, in the all too brief hours they shared the stage.  It was the keenest comfort he could offer, and that he did so without any prompting was further confirmation that her heart had chosen wisely, despite the obstacles that remained. 

In sharp contrast to those final weeks of rehearsal, this schedule also meant that she saw little of Viola, and better still, little of Viola and Ben _together_ —freeing her from the prickliness of jealousy that continued to plague her, despite her best intentions.  Most days, Vicki was able to let herself believe things would end well for _all_ three sides of their triangle; she could ignore doubt, delay guilt, and carry on with the happier expectation of a future with the man who had claimed her heart.  It was only the occasional social interaction with them as a couple which gave her pause, and reminded her that such a future was not actually set in stone—and she did her best to avoid such occurrences whenever she could.

Ophelia had half-heartedly pestered Vicki for a time, trying to discover the identity of the secret admirer who had sent that lush, opening night bouquet, but lost interest soon enough in the face of Vicki’s staunch refusal to give her even a clue; meanwhile, Phe’s relationship with Derek had grown quite serious, providing further distraction from her older sister’s bothersome riddle.

Thus, happily immersed in the work that was her heart’s blood, Vicki’s days and nights moved forward on an even keel, while she strove for patience as she counted down the weeks until the life she longed for—at Benedict’s side--could be fully, finally, realized.

* * *

 

“You’ll be joining us after stage door, won’t you?”  Viola had popped her head in the doorway of Vicki’s dressing room, her eyes alight and cheeks coloured prettily with excitement.  “Nearly everyone is coming, it would be a shame if you didn’t make it.”  Vicki wiped the rest of her stage makeup away and sighed wearily, before turning Viola’s way. As sunny as the younger woman sounded, Vicki detected—as she had more than once of late—a sour note of insincerity that seemed to mock her, and played upon her own concerns that Viola was aware of her secrets feelings for Benedict.

“Wouldn’t dream of missing it, dear,” Vicki answered, with a tired--and what she hoped passed for genuine--smile.  The post-show party at _The_ _Brass_ _Monkey_ was to be a celebration of three birthdays among cast and crew that fell on the same weekend—including Viola’s.  _Just twenty-five and the world is at her feet_ , Vicki thought, fondly remembering her own golden twenties.  _And I’ve no_ _cause for bitterness against her, even if she suspects I covet the man she thinks of as hers_.  She silently vowed to make an extra effort to be kind to her rival on this special evening, despite how disconcerting it was sure to be, watching Viola glory in Benedict’s attentions at the party.

Vicki kept that promise to herself as best she could, for as long as she could, managing a surprising graciousness toward Viola she hadn’t dared expect.  Fortunately there was plenty to distract her; laughter and light-heartedness aplenty, so that Vicki could turn away from the sight of Viola twining herself about him at every turn, and ignore her pretty, tipsy laughter at the table where she seemed to be holding court for her admirers.  Sipping on champagne while circulating through the crowd, making sure to wish happy birthday greetings to both Clara Wright and Jamie Griffiths,  Vicki found comfort in easy conversations with friends, gradually letting the alcohol and music relax her into a cheerier frame of mind.

Eventually though, she found herself back where she’d started the night, pressed by the partying throng to the very center table—only to find what she’d feared the most:  Viola parked upon Benedict’s lap, giggling as she nuzzled his neck, the fingers of one hand playing with his curls, and with her looking every inch as though this was exactly as things _should_ be.  As though it was her natural, unquestioned place.  Vicki sobered in a single breath, taking it all in; the flush of color in Viola’s cheeks and neck, the play of her hands in his hair, which she trailed down to his face and then his shoulders. The knowing laughter of the surrounding guests; the tableful of empty glasses attesting to indulgent partying.  But worst of all, the sad recognition that Benedict was _allowing_ Viola to carry on in this way, and so publically too.

When she thought about it later—understanding in perfect hindsight that she’d reacted rashly—Vicki realized that he had looked more sad than drunk (she was to discover in that same, regretful ‘later’, that he had actually imbibed very little by that point).  He had appeared patient, but resigned; he had seemed amused, but disengaged.  And though he had an arm around Viola, it was more to keep her toppling from his lap, than to hold her close.  All points that--had Vicki remained cool and clear eyed—would have been obvious enough to save her the days and nights of heartache that followed.

Noticing Benedict’s distraction at Vicki’s arrival, Viola glanced her way, and giggled merrily, “Good Sister, hail and well met!”  She covered her mouth as she hiccupped, and then added, “Sit you down and share a drink with us.”  Her speech was slightly slurred, but of course—as it seemed with everything she did—it only made her more adorable. 

Though it was the thing she wanted least in all the world, Vicki felt trapped; how could she refuse an invitation from the guest of honor?  “Well, why the hell not?” Vicki laughed, taking the empty seat opposite him.  She wondered if she sounded as brittle to the others as she did to her own ears, while she searched Benedict’s face for some clue as to what he actually _wanted_ her to do.  _No help there_ , she thought; _can’t he tell this is killing me inside_? “Let _me_ pick the poison then,” she told them, determined to play out this unwanted scene with some semblance of her usual poise, no matter the pain of it, “This celebration calls for something stronger than champagne.  Don’t you think so, Ben?”  Before he could answer, she had flagged the waitress over, who bent close enough to hear Vicki’s order above the din.

She braved a moment’s glance into his eyes, and she thought he looked perplexed—whether in reply to her behavior, or to the disquiet he could likely read in hers.  Yet her course was set, and she could see no turning back.  The waitress returned shortly, a row of filled shot glasses balanced neatly on her tray, along with a salt shaker and a small bowl of lime wedges.  Vicki leaned back, impishly instructing their server, “That’s perfect, love.  Three for each of us.”  She winked at Viola, “Three’s my lucky number, you know,” then looked back to their waitress, setting a generous tip upon her tray, “Set us up please, and we’ll drink ‘em down.”

Viola’s eyes had grown wide, and she giggled again.  “What’s this?”

“Tequila,” Benedict interjected, “but I don’t think you’re going to like it…”

“Bollocks,” Viola exclaimed, “If ‘big sister’s’ drinking it, then I am too!”  She grabbed a shot and sloshed a little onto her hand, “Oopsie.”

Benedict covered Viola’s hand with his, aiming to slow her headstrong decision.  “Not like that, Vi.  If you insist on trying it, you’ve got to do it right.”  He looked to Vicki, “She’s never done this, and for the record, I think it’s a mistake to have her do it now.”

Vicki harrumphed theatrically, “She’s a big girl now, Ben.  It won’t hurt her to get a taste of a different reality than what she’s used to.”  She turned to the younger woman, motioning for Viola to keep her eyes on her, “Watch carefully and learn, dear.”  She licked her skin between her right thumb and forefinger, then sprinkled it with a generous portion of salt; thus prepared, she licked it off and quickly followed by swallowing the shot of tequila, then sucked the juice from the wedge of lime.  Vicki relished the burn as the liquor went down, filling her belly with a comforting heat, a heat she _needed_ to fight the furor raging in her heart.  “Mmmm, Patron.  Only top shelf for such a special occasion.  Come on now, Ben—show her how to do it.”

He closed his eyes a moment and breathed deeply, as though asserting a patience he did not feel, then looked again to Vicki; his extraordinary, exotic eyes, that normally spoke poetry to her soul, were now indecipherable, and she couldn’t even tell if he was angry—or if he felt anything at all for her.  “As you wish,” he muttered, before following suit and downing his shot.

“Got it!”  Viola eagerly reached for the salt and lime, and imitated the process they had shown her.  She immediately sputtered and gagged. “That’s horrible,” she gasped, vigorously wiping the taste from her lips.  “How can you even drink this stuff?”  She shook her head, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“I suppose it’s an acquired taste, dear,” Vicki replied, “I’m so sorry—I should have realized it’s just not your speed.”  She tilted her head to give Benedict a pointed look, and then downed her second shot.

He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, and swallowed down his second.  His eyes seemed to plead with Vicki to stop now, before things got even worse.

Viola pushed her remaining shot glasses to the center of the table, “Well, I’m not drinking _that_.  Especially when there’s so much more scrummy things to drink.”  She slid from Benedict’s lap onto the chair to his right and reached for her half-full champagne flute.

“Suit yourself, Viola,” Vicki smiled, despite how false it felt, “Who am I to deny the birthday girl whatever she wants?”  The tequila was more than warming her nicely now—it was daring her to speak aloud secrets best held close; to give voice to the jealousy that she tamped down deep each time she observed Viola touch him possessively, or had to watch meekly when they left hand in hand at the end of the night.  Her third shot went down easily, but left a bitter taste of envy in its wake.

“You don’t have to do this, Vicki,” he told her, leaning across the table, and speaking low enough to escape Viola’s notice, “I know how hard it’s been.  I see how brave you’ve been.  And I promise that the loneliness you’re feeling will not go on forever.”

Vicki squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head roughly, trying to bite back the acid retort that sprang to mind.  Such seeming tender mercy was nearly too much for her to bear.  “Don’t,” she hissed, her eyes flaring open in anger. “Those are easy things to _see_ , but I don’t think _you_ have a clue what it’s like to live them every bloody day.”

Benedict sat back, surprised and speechless at her vehemence, and Vicki regretted her words in a heartbeat.  In that same moment, Viola had cozied up to him again, slipping her arm around his shoulders, so that _if_ he had a reply, it was immediately stifled.

The situation was spinning out of control— _she_ was ready to spin out of control—and Vicki realized she needed to keep her head about her, now more than ever.  She needed to turn away; no, better yet, she should just _walk_ away.  She should cut her losses and swallow the taste of bile at the back of her throat, and just…walk…away.  But even as her rational mind insisted that was the best course for her to follow, Vicki’s gut cried out against meek acceptance and inaction.  Why must _she_ always be the one to give way; where was the sacrifice on Benedict’s part?  For weeks she had smiled brightly despite the ineffable longing that filled her heart, remaining a silent witness as Viola daily staked her claim on him; Vicki had _never_ complained, and had quietly accepted her lot, steadfast in the belief that he _still_ wanted her as much as she wanted him.  She couldn’t help but wonder if he truly understood how much it hurt her having to watch him play at pretend with Viola every goddamn day.

Vicki drew herself straight and grabbed one of Viola’s discarded shots, swallowing it without the benefit of salt or lime, ( _good god the burn of that_!), then banged the glass back onto the table, loud enough to recapture Benedict’s attention.  Their eyes met, and he looked as though he wished to speak—and he might have, if Viola (deep in her cups now) hadn’t grabbed his face and pressed her lips relentlessly to his.  Vicki’s patience finally snapped.

She rose, surveying the men seated about the table, then leveled her gaze at the far end, on Callum Bailey--a lighting technician with whom she’d shared some casual, passing flirtations.  _He’s a little rough around the edges_ , she thought, _and not my_ usual _type_ , _but he should do nicely_.  Vicki trailed a single finger lightly along shoulders of the other seated men as she glided along to the end of the table, fully committed to act her chosen role; upon reaching Callum, she ran her right hand onto his shoulder, catching his full attention.  Favouring him with her most dazzling smile, she bent close to his ear.  “C’mon, Cal,” she urged him, pitching her voice so that Benedict was sure to hear her every word, “I want to dance—and I don’t think I should have to dance alone.”

 

_(to be continued)_

 


	13. "the course of true love never did run smooth"

Vicki hadn’t bothered to set her alarm—Sunday morning being the one day of the week she allowed herself that indulgence—but Hero rarely let her sleep too late.  First pacing back and forth on the carpet beside the bed, agitated and meowing, then growing impatient enough to leap onto the counterpane and knead Vicki’s shoulder insistently, while repeatedly butting her head against Vicki’s cheek, the little feline dragged her human from the numb comfort of sleep.

“Hero, please,” she croaked, her eyes still shut against the light—which seemed painfully bright, even through her closed lids.  Tequila.  Hungover. _Dreadfully_ hungover.  And she deserved it too.  Not only for her half-formed plan to make Viola look foolish in front of the man they both adored...but even more for her own insanely asinine actions that followed.  She groaned and rolled onto her back, dislodging the cat for a moment; undaunted, Hero began to purr, adjusting her place enough so she could rub her head along Vicki’s jawline.  “Oh, Hero,” she sighed, “You can’t imagine the bloody mess I’ve made of things—and I’ve only myself to blame.”

Vicki laid a forearm across her eyes, stifling the flood of hot tears that threatened to overwhelm her, while dreading how her first glimpse of daylight would surely make them water anyway--and realizing the mighty thirst she felt could no longer be denied, no matter how nauseous taking anything to drink might make her feel.  She sat up slowly, ruing how the movement made her head ache all the more, and finally opened her eyes, before reaching for the glass of water she’d left on her nightstand when she’d bedded down for the night.  She sipped it slowly, idly stroking Hero’s fur, while considering the predicament she’d created for herself.  Yes, she’d botched things up all right.  _Royally_.  

Her mobile buzzed out a text alert, vibrating against the cherrywood nightstand, demanding her attention even as Hero had done.  What she wanted more than anything—more than an end to the pounding in her brain, more than a settling of her queasy innards--was to pull the blanket over her head and just forget the hours between last night’s curtain call and her arrival home to her perpetually lonely flat.  Postponing reality, however, would not erase the stupid, stupid things she’d done, the repercussions of which she not yet dare picture.

Her hand quaked a little as she picked up the phone; and as she’d expected, she had a good dozen texts, voice messages, and missed calls awaiting her--all from Phe and Agnes.  Vicki’s heart sank, and a single tear finally slipped down her cheek--for after weeks and weeks of nightly texts from Benedict, texts assuring her that his feelings had only grown since their stolen night together, there was nary a one.   _I’ve cocked this one up but good_ , she thought, praying it wasn’t so severely as to be beyond repair.  Fighting the urge to give in to despondency, she opened the latest of the texts to arrive.

“ _Seriously, woman—call me. I’m well past worried now, to the point of being very concerned_.”

From Agnes.  It was time to face the music.

* * *

Agnes answered on the second ring, evidence she’d been waiting anxiously for Vicki’s call.  “Bloody hell, Vicki—I was about to come over there and storm the place to see if you’re okay.”  She hesitated several breaths before asking, “You _are_ at your place, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, of…of course I am,” Vicki sputtered, a bit confused, “Where else would I be?”

“Really?”  Agnes sounded genuinely surprised.  “After your little show last night, I can only imagine where you might’ve ended up.”

A fearful chill ran along Vicki’s spine as images from the night before flitted through her mind.  She had behaved like an immature idiot, to be sure; she’d been nearly irrational with jealousy when she had pulled Callum along to the dance floor.  It had hurt like hell to watch Viola all over Ben, and him appearing to do nothing to discourage those attentions; she’d ached to make him feel the same helplessness and frustration that coursed through her veins, compelled as she was to play silent witness to their charade.  _His_ charade—that’s all it was, she’d known, and yet she hadn’t been able to stop herself acting one of her own.

Vicki swallowed hard, her throat thick with apprehension, and finally managed a response, “Is this…do you mean dancing with Cal?  It…it didn’t mean anything.  I was blowing off steam, that’s all.”  A half-truth that failed the moment it left her lips, if she judged by her friend’s silence.  “Agnes?”

“Honey,” Agnes sighed, “It looked like a helluva lot more than blowing off steam.  That was some,” she paused, searching for the best way to describe it, “…that was some serious dirty dancing you did out there.  He had his hands all over you.”

Vicki’s cheeks felt aflame as the shameful truth hit home; she had indeed put on quite a show.  Meant for only one set of eyes, of course.  She’d lead a very willing Callum onto the dance floor, easily syncing her movements with the rhythmic beat, and in no time she’d encouraged his hands to freely roam her contours.  She had closed her eyes soon after that, letting the music fill her head, driving the resentment and hurt away for a time, losing herself in the heat of gyrating bodies pressed close around them and the feel of Cal’s lips on the skin of her neck--and how daringly he had eventually pulled her against him.  At least when he had tried to kiss her mouth, Vicki had turned away, urging him elsewhere; she still had sense enough not to tarnish the memory of Benedict’s kisses by sharing such with any other man.

“Oh christ, Agnes,” she moaned, beginning to reckon the damage she may have wrought, “I guess I lost my head.  Viola was all over Ben, even more than usual…and goddammit, he didn’t seem to mind, not one bit--and I couldn’t do a bloody thing to stop her…it just hurt so fecking badly…and god help me, I just wanted _him_ to see how it felt for a change…”  She broke off, realizing no excuse would be acceptable when it came time to face Benedict again. 

“I get it, honey.  I do.  I understand completely.”  Agnes’s sympathy was little consolation.  “But then you left with Callum, and it was pretty clear what you two planned on doing once you left.”  She paused, then added patiently, “Tell me that didn’t actually happen, okay?  Because that’s exactly how it looked when you two sashayed out the door.”

Again, Vicki saw it all play out in her head; having danced with her through several tunes, Cal had whispered in her ear how much he’d like to take her home.  She had laughed quietly, pleased with the power of having made him want her, but fully ready to apply the brakes—and then she’d caught sight of Viola nuzzling Benedict’s neck, and her common sense bowed out once again.  “Just let me get my things,” she’d told Cal, before heading over to grab her bag and silk shawl from the table where she’d left them.

She’d been well aware that Benedict was watching her as she reached for the last shot of tequila left on the table, quickly swallowing that liquid courage; their eyes met for a moment, and at last she saw the hurt she had hoped to draw in them.  Vicki found no satisfaction in accomplishing this petty goal, and would have faltered before him and gladly confessed her foolishness if Cal had not surprised her by joining them at table, eagerly encircling her waist from behind.  Her heart had beat like a hammer in her chest, as she watched Benedict’s expression harden towards her, disappointment vying with anger in the furrow of his brow, the flash of his eyes, the narrowing set of his mouth.

Vicki fell back against her pillow, fighting the urge to panic.  “You’re saying that…that…it looked like we left so we could hook up?”

“Virgilia, honestly--what else _could_ anyone have thought,” Agnes exclaimed, “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No. No, I swear…I just wanted to make Ben see how miserable _I_ feel every time I have to watch Viola carry on with him like that!”

“Well, my friend, I’m pretty sure that he got your point.  They left about fifteen minutes after you walked out with Callum—and he looked none too happy.”

Vicki gasped, unhappily connecting the dots, “Agnes, do you think he _believed_ that Cal and I were going off to shag?”

“Why wouldn’t he,” she reasoned, “It was damned obvious Cal was really into you--and you sure looked like you weren’t turning him away.”     

Suddenly, the air seemed too thick for her to draw adequate breath.  Vicki’s head was throbbing relentlessly, and it wasn’t only the after effect of too much tequila.  “I’ve mucked things up beyond repair, haven’t I?”  Her voice sounded small and tinny to her own ears.

“Well, that depends, love,” Agnes replied, “ _Did_ you do the deed with Callum—or not?

* * *

Of course she hadn’t.  Vicki had been a little disappointed that Agnes had even had to ask—until she considered how very convincing her act of the night before had been.  Arm in arm, she and Cal had walked out of _The Brass Monkey_ \--the very picture she’d wanted Benedict to see, payback for all the nights she’d had to watch him do the same with Viola.  But she’d planned to shoot one final look over her shoulder, to catch his eye long enough to let him know that she wasn’t actually going through with it.  Just a shrug and a slight shake of her head, and a sheepish smile which he would understand was just for him.  Ill timing had a waiter--bearing a full tray lofted high--pass across her sight line at that moment, so that her silent message likely went unseen.

Once on the sidewalk, Cal had swept her into his arms, planting a heady kiss upon her mouth.  Catching her breath, Vicki had pulled away, stammering an apology.  “I’m sorry, Cal…I think I’ve had too much to drink.  I’m feeling rather woozy…”  She had added a bit of a stumble into him, to be all the more convincing; certainly it wasn’t fair to have led him on, and she didn’t want to dent his male pride with a straight out rejection.  “This is so embarrassing,” she mumbled, eyes cast down in faux shame, “but I think I may be sick.”  She raised her eyes to his, aiming to play the little lost waif, “It’s probably best if I call it a night, don’t you think?  Would you mind too terribly getting me a taxi?”

Fortunately, Callum was enough of a gentleman (quite regretfully on _his_ part) to honor her request, and in short order Vicki left him standing on the pavement with her thanks and a chaste kiss on his cheek, ingenuously waving goodbye as the cab pulled away.  Once out of sight, she’d breathed a sigh of great relief; come Monday, she supposed, she would have a bit of fancy footwork to do to quash any further interest he might show—taking care to spare his ego, while owning up to a ridiculous capriciousness brought on by having far too much to drink.

But unfortunately, Agnes had informed her that the lighting tech had _not_ returned to the pub (Vicki guessed he hadn’t wanted to appear to have failed to close the deal on what should have been a sure thing)—leaving Agnes among the many still at the party to assume that Vicki and Cal had ended the night in _flagrante delicto_. Gossip being what it was, Vicki had no doubt that such a spicy tidbit would spread quickly throughout remaining cast and crew well before Monday’s performance.  It wouldn’t be the first time she was the subject of a salacious rumor—but that Benedict might _believe_ it, was a disaster that could prove her heart’s undoing.

Declining Agnes’s offer of company before bidding her goodbye, Vicki tendered up a silent, remorseful prayer.  _Heaven help me_ , she plead against all hope, g _ive me a chance to sort this out before I lose him altogether._

* * *

Vicki spent the remainder of the day alternating between berating herself for her own stupidity, giving in to desperate tears, and contemplating how she might set about mending what she had broken.  Emotionally exhausted and unable to eat, she barely kept panic at bay at times, incapable of focusing on things she hoped would distract her.  Even with nightfall, the solace of sleep eluded her completely. 

Midnight came and went, and so passed another night without the accustomed text from Benedict, the implications of which were devastating.  By 3am she could no longer fight the urge, and finally broke her cardinal rule, reaching out to him the only way she could. Despite knowing he’d be unlikely to respond given the hour, she still needed to try. 

“ _You have every right to be angry with me for the other night,_ ” she wrote, “ _God knows, I’m still mortified, and angry with myself._ ”

And then…

“ _I know this will fall far short of the apology I owe you. I behaved abysmally,_ _and you deserve so much better_.”

She added her vital truth...

“ _You need to know that nothing happened between Cal & I. I took a taxi_ _home. Alone. I swear on all I hold dear that I left him standing on the curb_.”

And last of all, her hopes pinned on his compassionate nature…

“ _Your silence is deafening, my darling. If you still feel anything for me, please don’t leave me hanging here without a word of comfort._ ”

Vicki laid her mobile back on the bedside table, her head upon her pillow, and by 4am had fallen into the most fitful sleep of her life.

Hours later, foggy-minded and groggy-eyed, Vicki reached for her mobile the moment she awoke, unsure which would be worse—the bitter reply she deserved, or no word at all.  Her stomach clenched when she saw Benedict had texted her at last.

“ _I’m not angry, love. I’ll admit I was, but I understand now how difficult this has been for you. I owe you as much of an apology, if not more._”

‘ _Love_ ’.  Still calling her ‘love’; no matter what else came, at least there was that.  Knowing she deserved a sterner reply, Vicki braced herself for his further reply.

“ _We need to talk. Just let me figure out a time & place, and then get back to you.  There’s things we best discuss face to face._”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she sent her reply.  “ _Just tell me what you need so that I can make things right between us.  I’ll have no peace of mind or heart until I do._ ”

Setting her mobile back on the table, Vicki curled onto her side, hugging her pillow close, letting fall tears of relief—relief necessarily marred by apprehension of the graver things he’d have to say once he saw her in person.  Still, if it took a dozen _mea culpas_ to cure the rift she had created, she would offer them with the gentlest, most honeyed tongue that she could manage, grateful for whatever chance Benedict would give her to prove her heart remained true.

 

_(to be continued)_

 


	14. "...love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit…”

Virgilia had not been the only one struggling to sleep that Sunday night; Benedict had spent the hours since Viola had nodded off, going over and over the events of the previous night.  The sight of Vicki dancing far too close with Callum, and how familiarly she’d allowed him to touch her; the sting of her harsh words at table, coupled with the angry fire in her eyes; and the inescapable knowledge that she’d left the bar arm and arm with the lighting tech, their intentions for the remainder of the night clear for everyone to see—all of it a heartache like he’d never known before, but _had_ to keep well hidden.  Vicki’s unexpected texts broke the silence between them, finally granting him a share of bittersweet relief, but still he feared a bridge or two had burned too badly for them to truly set things right.  The sooner he was able to see her, speak with her—and if he was lucky, hold her—the sooner he could begin to put his painful, ill-considered mistakes behind him.  Behind _them_ , if there was any mercy to be had for the foolish.

He’d managed only broken sleep, and when he woke, Benedict had checked his mobile—as he’d done nearly every hour since Sunday’s morning light; his heart hammered at the name attached to the multiple messages awaiting him.  Feeling like the worst kind of sneak, he’s slipped into the loo anyway, half fearing what Vicki might have to say, but desperately needing to know where he stood.  Her words reflected remorse equal to his own, leaving him a blessed leeway of hope.  He spent the remaining hours of the night on the living room sofa, dozing when he could, and considering just how he could manage to see Vicki in person—eventually working out an ideal excuse to give Viola.

But he couldn’t appear too eager, so he worked out for an hour before breakfast, pushing himself through a more rigorous routine than was necessary.  Viola had wandered in to check on him, perplexed by intensity of his workout, and then left him on his own as she went to make breakfast.  Though he could barely muster an appetite, he would act his part well enough to keep any suspicion at bay.

As Benedict cleared away their plates and utensils, dutifully loading the dishwasher, he casually mentioned his plans to Viola.  “So, um…if you don’t mind, I’m gonna set up a meeting with Vicki today—there’s a project I’m looking at signing on for with BBC, and there’s a part in it perfect for her.  You, uh…you wouldn’t mind me taking lunch with her this afternoon, would you?”

Viola had smiled her prettiest, and gave a little shrug, “Not at all, babe.  Maybe I’ll get a facial and massage this afternoon, so you’re more than free to go off and play with a friend.”  She came up beside him, and kissed his cheek.  “How about we grab a light supper at _Tidbits_ before our costume call?  I’ve been craving fried aubergine and zucchini for…like a week now.”

“Sounds perfect, Vi,” he smiled, hating how false it felt—and wondering how, if she knew him as well as their years together _should_ dictate, she couldn’t see its insincerity.  Hoping to put distance between them, and avoid any questions she might pose about the “project”, he added, “I ought to hit the shower.”

She slid her arms around his waist, looking mischievous.  “Hmmmmm…maybe I should join you,” she purred, “You know, scrub your back, and such.”

“Yeah…um…let me take a pass on that, for now, Vi.”  God how he hated piling up lies upon lies!  “I think I pulled a muscle in my back working out this morning, and the best thing for it is to let the hot water pound out the kink.  You…you understand…”

“If you say so, Ben,” she pouted, “Though I bet these magic fingers could work wonders far beyond simple hot water.”

_I’ll bet they could at that_ , he admitted silently, _but I swear those days are done for us now._

Viola circled around, to stand in front of him.  “Suit yourself, then—but perhaps after lunch, you’ll come home for some desert,” she suggested, moving her face kissably close.  Benedict turned his cheek enough, so her kiss landed shy of his lips.

His quiet rebuff held her puzzled a moment, but she soon shook it off, and turned to sashay out of the kitchen.  Looking back over her shoulder, she left him with a wink and a pert little sigh--blissfully unaware that her charms were wasted upon him.

* * *

 

Vicki lay abed, feeling each second drag along endlessly as she awaited Benedict’s promised text, while speculating how she might best express her regret to him, regarding her appalling behavior.  When her mobile rang, she answered in a heartbeat—not expecting him to call, but pleased, and eager to hear him speak. 

“Hey there, love.”  Though his voice was a little rough and tired sounding, it was still music to her ears.“I hope you don’t mind I called.”

“Mind?  Oh never,” she told him, trying to keep her voice from cracking, “Never, Ben.  I just assumed you’d text, like usual.”

“It’s alright…I’m…it’s safe for us to talk,” he drew a breath long enough to tell her he was nervous too, “And I couldn’t resist the chance to hear your voice.”

“It’s good to hear you too.”  It was a huge relief, in fact, though she stopped short of such an exclamation.  “Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry for behaving so abominably the other night.  It’s no excuse, I know—but…but I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“I know, love,” he assured her, “And I’m as much to blame, for putting you in this impossible situation…”

“No,” she protested, “That was not your fault; it was all me.  Being needy and selfish and incredibly stupid.”

“Please don’t be so hard on yourself.  We both made a good share of mistakes that night,” he asserted.  Vicki offered no reply, nearly overwhelmed by tears at his easy generosity; Benedict continued through her silence, “I was, uh…hoping I could come by your flat—we need to talk in private…”

She hesitated, remembering how close they come to losing their heads the last time he was in her flat, “I dunno if that’s such a good idea, Ben.”

“I really need to see you, Virgilia.”  And then, as though he had read her mind, he added lightheartedly, “I promise that I _will_ behave.”

“But Viola…”

“Don’t worry about Viola,” he interjected, “She made plans for the afternoon already, so we’ll have a couple of hours at least.”

Concerned for his sake, she had to ask, “This might be tempting fate too much, Benedict.”

“Fate owes us a better turn about now, love,” he countered, “By my reckoning, anyway.  Besides, I already told her we’d be having lunch, and I assure you, she had no problem with it.”

Cautiously, Vicki agreed, secretly delighted to have a little precious time alone with him—yet concerned about what might be serious enough for them to discuss face-to-face.  She had to wonder if—despite his seeming to hold her faultless—it might portend a sudden end for them, before they’d even had a true beginning.

* * *

 

Following Benedict’s call, Vicki had been unable to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time.  Though he’d sounded quite tired, she had detected nothing in his tone or in what he had said, to cause her a moment’s concern.  She remained uneasy, nevertheless, unable to forgive herself for her idiotic behavior at _The Brass Monkey_.  That he seemed already willing to put it behind them was a godsend—and in honest keeping with his nature—but she felt unworthy of such easy forgiveness.

She wasn’t all that hungry, but she forced herself to eat some buttered toast anyway, and swallowed a half glass of orange juice, before showering and readying herself for his arrival.  She tried on and rejected three outfits, before finally settling on a fourth—hoping to look her best, her softest, her most appealing, without looking too obvious about it.  Hero coolly observed her activities, weaving about her legs at times in a ploy for attention, so that eventually Vicki dumped a full can of tuna into Hero’s dish, just to give herself time to calm down and breathe easy in the last minutes before she heard Benedict buzz for entry into her building.  

Heart pounding in her chest, she opened the door as soon as he knocked, breathless despite her efforts to stay composed—and in an instant, all the softness and longing she’d ever felt for him hit her hard, intensified several fold, mixed with a sharp spike of shame for her utter folly…and deep relief at the light in his astounding (albeit tired) eyes.  The light that she knew in her heart, was just for her.

Benedict held a bouquet of soft pink roses and vibrant violet hyacinths, accented with little sprays of orange blossom, all tied together with a pink satin ribbon; their combined fragrance sweet and summery, and like a welcome bit of fresh air after all the hours she’d cloistered herself in her flat.  He drew a deep breath, preparing to speak, then gave a wee, lop-sided smile, and a husky, single word.  “Hi.”  Vicki’s heart lightened at the gentle regard upon his face.

“Hi,” she replied, past the lump in her throat.

“These are for you,” he said, extending the bouquet across the little space between them.

“Oh, Ben…they’re…” she stammered, taking it from him, “…they’re…absolutely lovely.  But you really didn‘t have to…”

He took a small step closer.  “Oh, love,” he assured her, “I should bring you flowers every day.”  Vicki closed her eyes as he reached to caress her cheek, while he added quietly, “ _Every_ day.”

Daring to face him again, while chiding herself for going weak far too quickly, she noted that behind his glasses, his eyes were red-rimmed ( _so like my own_ , she thought); and though fresh-shaven, he looked as weary as she felt.  She bit her tongue against exclaiming what a likely pair they made.  In truth, he looked so sad, so earnest—and so in _need_ —that Vicki had to fight the urge to throw her arms around him and pull him over the threshold.  Instead, she answered with a small smile of her own, “These really are gorgeous, Ben.”  She brought the flowers close to her face, inhaling deeply, “And they smell divine.”  Meeting his eyes, she faltered a moment; his nearness, after those hours and hours of miserable uncertainty, weakening her resolve to keep from clinging to him shamelessly.  “Please…please come in,” she managed, “Let me set these in water, and then we can talk.”

“Of course.”  His voice was that low, watered silk, which never failed to speak directly to her heart, “Whatever you need, love.”  He followed her into the flat, shutting the door behind him, and headed for the sofa, while Vicki ducked into the kitchen to get a vase.

She returned to find him perched on the sofa, his head bowed, and appearing quite lost in thought.  Clearing her throat lightly to announce her presence, she rounded the far end of the couch, and then placed the flowers on the coffee table, before taking a seat herself.  The silence between them was thick with expectation—but after a long pause, their natural ease with one another overcame their hesitation, and they both began to speak at once.

The break in the tension made Benedict grin, and sheepishly run a hand through his hair—one of the dozens of little habits that Vicki found forever dear.  All the fear, frustration, and hurt that she’d been feeling, nearly faded away in the light of his heartfelt smile.  “Oh, Ben,” she sighed, helpless to resist his pull upon her heart, “Can you ever forgive my foolishness?

“Virgilia—if you were foolish, it’s only because _I_ brought you to it.” He shook his head, patiently giving her absolution, “I should have realized weeks ago how hard this charade has been on you.  I should have seen how much it was hurting you.”

Vicki bowed her head, shaking it adamantly while struggling to keep from crying about it in front of him.  Finally mastering herself, she looked back to him, “I’ve missed you so much, Ben.  And I never imagined how lonely I would feel, waiting for our time to finally arrive.”

Benedict scooted close enough to take her hand, twining his fingers through hers, “I’d give my entire fortune to have our time begin today.  To claim you as mine in front of the whole world.”  He brought her hand close and brushed his lips across her knuckles.   

His quiet patience--when he had every right in the world to be angry with her—left Vicki in awe.  Could there be any more perfect man in creation?  “You’re much too good to me, Ben,” she marveled, “I swear—I don’t deserve you.”

He closed his eyes and his jaw tightened, as though he was trying to suppress some strong emotion.  She remained breathless until he spoke.  “No, love—you deserve better,” he sighed hard, “Far, far better than how I’ve done by you so far.”

“Oh…no, my darling…no,” Vicki protested, her heart swelling with love, “You’ve done your absolute best.  Even now, _despite_ my ridiculousness…giving me another chance.”  He broke from her gaze at that, and she felt an unexpected sliver of doubt try to insinuate itself between them.  “What is it, my love?  I swear I will do _whatever_ it takes to make things right between us.”

Quiet a moment more, Benedict looked to her again; the unexpected sorrow in his eyes a source of sudden unease enough to silence her.  Tender was his reply, “Just be mine, Vicki, as you have been since that first night.  Trust in us. Please--no matter what happens.”  He laced his fingertips in her hair, bringing her face close to kiss her lightly, and told her, “And let me hold you for a while, love.  We’ve denied ourselves that for far too long, don’t you think?”

On the verge of tears again, Vicki nodded and moved into his arms.  Benedict’s mixed signals had her confused, but his sure embrace was the exact comfort she’d been craving.  She nestled her head in the crook of his neck, and he answered with a kiss upon her hair.  “Oh god, Ben,” she admitted, “I feared that I’d lost this forever.”

“Lost what?” 

“The strength and…” Chastely, Vicki kissed his neck, and then his jawline below his ear before continuing, “And the sweet shelter of your arms.”  She laid one palm against his chest, feeling him take a deep, deep breath.  “I was terrified you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

Benedict gave the slightest shake of his head, tightening his arms around her. “My dear, I swear that there is nothing… _nothing_ ,” he stressed, “…that you could do to make me love you any less.  I swear to you, today…and always…I’ll only ever love you more.”

She drew a tremulous sigh, reciting softly a brief bit of poetry, “ _Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar…_ ” As she paused for dramatic effect, he joined her in the last, “ _…but doubt not that_ _I love._ ”  Vicki _hmmm’d_ happily, treating him to the soft, sweet brush of her lips upon his cheek.     

With a small chuckle, he assured her of his truth, “Even so, love. Always and forever so.”  And then he added somberly, “I need to trust you feel the same.”

Swiftly, Vicki answered from the depths of her heart, “I swear upon my soul, Ben, I do.  Now…always.”  She closed her eyes, truly relaxed for the first time in days, sighing her relief, “Forever.”

* * *

 

Braced by their loving affirmations, they remained entwined a while longer—though a far more serious discussion remained inescapable.  Reluctantly, Vicki brought reality around, braving a quiet question.  “How long do we have before…before you have to go?”

“A while yet.”  Benedict kissed her hair lightly, breathing in her beloved scent again, loathe to disturb the peace they’d settled into.  “For the record, Viola thinks we’re having lunch.  I told her that I wanted to discuss a possible future project with you.”

Vicki nodded against him, “Alright.”  She traced a finger along the top few buttons of his shirt, asking softly, “And she had no problem with the idea of us working together again?”

“Not that she mentioned,” he advised her.  “Do you think it would _be_ an issue for her?”

She hesitated a moment, reluctant to admit her suspicions, “Well…there was the fiasco from the other night; I’m sure she’s less than thrilled with me.  And…um…just lately…”  Vicki shrugged, and raised her head to face him, “I’m sorry to have to say this, Ben, but lately…I think she suspects I’ve got feelings for you…”

“Seriously?” He frowned, looking surprised by the news.  “She hasn’t said a word to me—has she said as much to you?”

“No.  But there’s a tension between us, that wasn’t there a few weeks ago.  A coldness behind her smile that has me concerned.”  She shook her head, clearly remorseful, “I’m sorry, Ben.  You know I’ve done my best--until _The Brass Monkey_ , anyway.  She’s such a bright girl, and…I guess this was…inevitable.”

“Bollocks,” he muttered, considering Vicki’s revelation.  His voice was grave as he took both of her hands in his.  “Even if that’s the case, she’s likely thinking it’s one sided…”

Unconvinced, she interjected, “You can’t be sure of that…can you?”

Benedict hung his head low, while tightening his hold upon Vicki’s hands.  She quailed at the sight of his slumped shoulders; at the strangled sound of his despair.  Unable to face her, he answered nonetheless, “For the time being? Yeah. I am.”

A sense of growing panic filled Vicki’s chest, and the air felt nearly too heavy to breath.  “Benedict, what’s wrong,” she pleaded, “Tell me.  Please.”  He shook his head roughly, prompting her to reach for his face.  “You’re scaring me, darling…”  And as she knew it would be, the amazing eyes that met her own were full of pain—and brimming with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Virgilia,” he whispered, “I failed you.  I love you more than I ever imagined I _could_ love anyone—and I failed you anyway.”

Stunned, Vicki searched his face for any glimmer of hope; any hope that the nature of his failure was not the most obvious answer that came to her.  “Ben?”  She could say no more, held in stasis by fearful expectation.

“There’s no excuse for what I’ve done.  I was weak, and foolish beyond measure,” he told her.  Even in his shame and his extremity, Vicki found him more beautiful than any soul she had ever known.  “I can beg you to forgive me, but I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”

Several heartbeats passed before she could speak, as she accepted the dreadful reality in store.  Blinking back tears, she laid her hand against his cheek, “Tell me, love.  Tell me everything.  I swear to you, my heart is yours, regardless. Just…” she sobbed at the sorrow they now shared, “…just tell me truth.”


	15. “If you have tears, prepare to shed them now…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It's extremely angsty--and perhaps a bit too long. Thank you for bearing with me, Dear Reader!)

His face a mask of despair, Benedict bent his head low, taking both of Virgilia’s hands to hold between his own.  In a voice repentant, he repeated what would become his mantra, as he prepared to share his sorry truth, “There’s no excuse in the world for how I wronged you, Virgilia.  I’m very clear on that.”

Vicki was trembling as she watched him, knowing she had asked for his honesty and dreading what he would be revealing; her heart ached not only for what she had guessed was coming, but for the pain of this man who thoroughly owned her heart.  She leaned closer to lay the ghost of a kiss on his cheek, and whispered against his ear, “It’s alright, Ben.  I can take it.  Make your confession—so we can both start to heal.”

He groaned softly, then raised his head—his profile so heartbreakingly beautiful despite the situation, that Vicki’s breath caught.  Inhaling deeply as he steeled himself, he finally turned to face her, “I’m afraid you’ll never look at me the same way again—but that would be exactly what I deserve…”

“Oh my darling, don’t you know by now that your name is written on my heart?  Indelibly.”  That simple truth, spoken aloud, was enough to dispel her immediate fears, so that she assured him gently, “Trust in that, Ben.  Please. Trust that my love for you cannot be shaken.”

“Trust,” he mused sadly, “That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it?  And now I’ve broken yours.”            

“Not irretrievably, my love,” she promised him.

He shook his head and a small, bittersweet smile played upon his mouth, “How can you be so sure, Virgila? My guilt is a heavy one.”

“I’m sure, because _I_   bear an equal share of guilt for the choices you made that night. I put you in a horrible position,” she insisted. 

“That’s no excuse for what I did,” he reiterated, “And no matter how it looked with Callum, I should have known you well enough to realize you wouldn’t go through with it… _couldn’t_ go through with it.”

Aiming to make it easier for him, Vicki admitted, “I was an utter fool trying to make you jealous.  Stupidly thinking I should give you a taste of how I was feeling.”  She sighed hard, and her voice was rich with regret, “But once I’d made a start of it, it spun well out of my control.” 

“I know, love.  And I’m sorry I left you without a better alternative…”

“We made that choice together, Ben,” she reminded him, “Thinking it would be best for all three of us.

“If I had to choose again,” his voice broke, edged with frustration, “I’d say to hell with the show.  I’d make the break from Viola, and then a clean start of _our_ life together.”

“As would I, my love.  But there’s no going back.”  Vicki took his face in her hands, recommitting each freckle and fine smile line to memory, vowing to never again be the cause of the pain so clear in his eyes (while knowing that he was about to bring a sizable bit of pain her way), and searching for words to comfort him.  She brushed his lips lightly with her own--though she longed to kiss him in full—then breathed against his mouth, what wisdom she could, “ _What’s gone, and what’s past help, should be past_ _grief._ ”

She felt him relax from a bit of the strain he was under, as he murmured, “ _The Winter’s Tale_?”  Vicki gave a small shrug, and a pleased little smile that even in their gravest moments, they still spoke the same language.  “Alright then,” he sighed hard, “It’s useless to delay any further—and you deserve the truth.”

 _God help me, yes_ , she thought, as braced as she could be for what she feared came next.

“Saturday was bad,” he started, “Really bad.  I didn’t want to be there any more than you did.  And like so many things these days, I had no…”

“No choice…” she finished for him, having felt that way as well.

“Right,” he nodded, “But I was glad for once, to see you put some distance between us, because I knew Viola would make a show of things.  I used to find that charming, but…well…not so much anymore.”

She shook her head, sadly reckoning her contribution to the night’s folly, “And I suppose I only made it worse.”

“No.  Viola was pretty oblivious by that point; that thing with the tequila—she hasn’t mentioned it since.”  Benedict paused, and Vicki could see he was replaying the night’s images in his mind’s eye, “But I saw how it hurt you to us watch together.  And I couldn’t do a bloody thing to make it right.”

Vicki flushed with shame, “And then I lashed out at you.  Oh, Ben, I’m so, so sorry—I felt like I was dying inside, and I honestly thought you couldn’t tell.”

“Love, I _always_ know when you’re hurting—especially when I’m the one bringing the pain.”

“It’s the situation brings it, not _you_ ,” she insisted.  Tears she had sworn _not_ to shed—for his sake—welled up in her eyes.  “I’ve made a terrible mess of us, haven’t I?”

“Nothing we can’t fix—together,” he promised.  “If you’ll only bear with me…and…”  Benedict looked down, his lips pressed thin, “…the mess that _I’ve_ made.”

Silence filled the space between them, though Vicki knew the worst was yet to come.  “And so?” she asked quietly.

“I was confused and you were angry.  When you took Callum onto the dance floor, I thought at first you were acting a part, just trying to prove a point…”

She bowed her head as well, “I was.  I swear that was all I intended…”

“I watched you, couldn’t take my eyes off you—until he was touching you.  That’s when I had to look away.”  How calm he was, recounting those moments, and not a bit of recrimination in his tone, so that Vicki couldn’t have felt worse.  “Then you came to gather your things and I’d hoped…well, I’d hoped you would relent.  Show me some sign that you weren’t leaving with him.”

“I tried, Ben. I tried.”  Her voice broke in despair, “That’s exactly what I wanted—but our signals got crossed in the end there, didn’t they?”

Wearily, he nodded, “Yes—I know _now_ that they did.”

“And you believe me, right?”  Vicki fought the anxiety threatening to overwhelm her.  “You know nothing more happened between Cal and I?”

Benedict brought her hand close, and skimmed his lips across her knuckles.  His breath was warm, soothing against her skin, and coupled with his gentle manner, enough to slow the panicked pounding of her heart.  “Of course, love.  If I’d been clear-headed at the time, I would have realized it then.”

“I behaved ridiculously,” she declared, “I knew that, even in the midst of it.  And I’d take it back--all of it--if I could.  You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” he whispered, then repeated raggedly, “I do.  And don’t think for a moment that I blame you, Virgilia.”  The soft, loving regard in his extraordinary eyes held her rapt, no trace of resentment or bitterness reflected in their soulful depths.  “Neither of us were at our best that night, were we?  There’s plenty _I’d_ take back, if I could.”

“Then tell me now, my love…my dearest…my heart,” she urged him, clear-eyed and fully ready for the blow, “And we can move forward, with no looking back."

* * *

 

Benedict had asked for something cold to drink, so she’d gotten lemonade for the both of them.  For a few moments there was only the sound of ice clinking against their glasses, and then he began, “I believe that I know you as well as I know myself—hasn’t it been that way for us from the start?”  Vicki nodded in agreement, for it was her truth as well.  “That should have been enough for me to keep our faith.”  Willingly, Benedict owned up to his failing, “But I was confused…and hurt.  And after you and Callum left, I was angry.  Angry at you…myself…the situation we’re trapped in.”

“Of course,” she whispered, “I would have felt the same.”

“There’s no excuse in that, I know,” he affirmed, then added painfully, “I was...despondent.  I felt cut off from you, for the first time since we admitted our feelings for one another…”

“Since our night…” she murmured, closing her eyes in recollection.

“Yes,” he responded, “And the promises we made.  If the drink had weakened my judgement—that’s no excuse.  I was even weaker with misery, thinking I might just have lost you.”  He huffed bitterly, “Still no excuse, I swear—but that’s what I was thinking.”

Vicki listened wide-eyed and silent, anticipating the worst, keeping further tears at bay moment by moment—not from a desire to be brave, but because it was exactly what Benedict needed of her.

“We left shortly after you did.  We took a taxi, and Viola amused herself—she was still pretty tipsy—chattering about the evening.  I really didn’t hear a word she was saying,” he nearly growled in frustration relived, “All I could think about was you.  Of the taste of our every forbidden kiss.  Of the way you say my name, certain it would have changed by the next time I saw you…”

“Never, Benedict,” she protested gently, “Your name is the dearest prayer I’ll ever speak.”   

He tilted his head as he paused, staving off tears of his own.  “I was remembering the soft, sweet scent of your hair, and of how pure and…” he inhaled deeply, his eyes squeezed shut, “… how _right_ your skin had felt against mine, that night.”

“Yes,” Vicki whispered, “That’s exactly how it felt.  I haven’t forgotten that. Not for a moment.”  She stroked his cheek tenderly--loving the slight rough of his unshaven skin—so that he opened his eyes to meet hers again.

“ _My_ beautiful Virgilia,” he crooned, cupping his hand atop hers, then sliding her hand to his mouth, to kiss her palm.  “I’ve been the worst sort of fool.”

She shook her head, smiling softly, “You are the best man in the world, my love. I promise you, _nothing_ can diminish that truth.”

He breathed deeply again, trying to calm the turmoil inside, and then continued his tale.  “We got home, and you were still my every thought.  I went through the motions, getting ready for bed, but knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep.  I couldn’t stop thinking of _everything_ we had denied ourselves that night, and that our chance may have passed us by, forever.”  Anguish tinged his voice.  “Worst of all, I couldn’t keep from picturing you in Callum’s arms, giving yourself to him in all the ways _I’ve_ been wanting you…the whole time cursing myself for driving you to it.”

Vicki covered her mouth to stifle a sob, trying her best to focus on his pain, rather than her own, “Oh god, I _never_ meant for you to feel that way.”

He nodded, and was silent a moment, before quietly kissing her fingertips, and then assuring her, “I know, love.  I could never _blame_ you.  We both made some…piss poor…decisions that night.  Things we’d both take back if given the choices again.”

“In a heartbeat,” she professed, hanging on to his every word, and to the bittersweet rise and fall of his voice, “And so, my love?”

Benedict kept his eyes on hers, willing himself to recount the worst he’d yet to share.  “Viola had sobered enough by then to see that something was wrong—she kept asking what was on my mind, and why I looked so miserable,” he revealed, “I told her I just was tired; that I was more knackered than usual from doing matinee and evening shows that day.”

Vicki shuddered with foreboding, “Did…did she believe you?”

He shook his head.  “She didn’t give me any indication otherwise.”  Benedict raked a hand through his hair.  “But by then she had…other things on her mind,” he added.

A stronger sense of misgiving fluttered in her chest and she swallowed hard, needing to ask, but ruing her suspicions, “What ‘ _other things_ ’, Benedict?”

Having reached the crucial point, he faltered a moment, tightening his hold on her hand—hoping to draw some of her strength unto himself.  Vicki could nearly taste his shame; the love she bore him begged her offer solace for his distress, but she wondered—who would console her, when already her heart had begun to crack.

“She sat beside me on the bed and held my hand.  She was softer, sweeter, than she’d been in ages—when we’ve been alone, anyway.  She was honestly…” he shrugged, as though perplexed, “…concerned.  I hadn’t expected that…”

“How lovely for you,” Vicki muttered, then swiftly recanted her bitterness, “I’m sorry, Ben.  I know that was uncalled for.”

“No. No, I _deserve_ it,” he replied, “I deserve every…rotten...thing you’ll be thinking, soon enough.”  She made no answer, and so he continued, plaintively, “I hate admitting it, but I could see how much she still cares for me.  It…it took me by surprise.”                   

She closed her eyes a moment, striving to gentle her reply, “Of course she still cares, Ben.  That much is clear to see.”  Vicki gave a little gasp, her fight against the tears lost at last, “You’re…you’re an easy man to love, you know.”  She sniffled, earnestly confessing, “God knows _I_ tried my best not to.  And look where it’s gotten us.”

His eyes spoke his disappointment with himself, before he uttered a word.  “I’m sorry, Vicki.  For this. For everything.”  He brushed the wet from her cheeks with his free hand, “I’m sorry for every bloody mistake I’ve made along the way.  You deserve so much better than this.”

“I have to wonder if either of us deserve better,” she reflected softly, before reluctantly asking him, “But what happened with Viola?”  

“She was…” a pained expression crossed his face, “She was gentle with me, like she used to be--before our trip to California made her want a different life for us.  She was…very conciliatory,” he sighed, “And then she reminded me—as if I _needed_ reminding--that it had been months since we’d made love.”

Vicki’s mouth went dry, hearing her worst fear addressed aloud; she cast her eyes down, reminding him quietly, “From well before _we’d_ even met.  I remember you told me as much.”

“Yeah, I…uh…guess I did.”  Benedict bowed his head, and Vicki knew he couldn’t face her for the rest.  “She asked me if I didn’t miss her that way, even a little. When she began kissing my face, and then my neck, I didn’t turn her away, as I have for a long while now.” 

“Why would you,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“It’s no excuse, none whatsoever—but she was offering a comfort I hadn’t looked for.  And I was weaker than I ever thought I could be.”  He drew a ragged breath, “I was thinking that you had made your choice--instead of having more faith in you…and I gave in and held her, actually hoping I could escape those thoughts of you and…and Callum…”

Mutely, Vicki listened, offering no reply, no distraction; her sight had darkened around the edges, while her heart pounded furiously, but there was nothing she could do but go forward.

“…and even as I started to touch her, I was remembering the…the heaven of touching you…of plunging my hands in your hair…and of how soft and yielding you became…and the ways you had touched me that night…until I…” his voice fraught with shame, Benedict stammered on, “…until I _wasn’t_ remembering it…anymore…”

Vicki moaned, wishing her imagination didn’t picture them together so vividly, praying for her own share of blessed forgetfulness, as his telling drew to its inevitable conclusion.

“…afterwards, I slept. Without dreaming, thank god.  I woke up in the dark, disoriented at first, then remembering what I’d done when…when I realized Viola was curled up against me…”  He trailed off, his tears a sure testament to his regret, but of little comfort to the breaking of her heart.

Though this cruel blow was very near to what she had expected, it was staggering; Vicki found herself incapable of speech.  She was remembering with painful clarity every moment that had made her take the fall; every boyish, sunshine smile, every thoughtful, generous gesture, every time their eyes had met in perfect, unspoken communication.  She was remembering every promise they had made to one another, to endure the months of waiting so they might have the cleanest start to their future.  How easy it had seemed in the fresh blush of admitting their feelings—and how useless now, those promises had proven to be.

Countless moments passed; Vicki felt him waiting on her, and still she could not speak.  Benedict whispered her name, clasping her hands in both of his, “Say something, please…”

“What would you have me say,” she snapped, though she did not withdraw her hands from his grasp.

“Anything. Curse me and the day we met,” he urged her, “Tell me that you hate me.  Turn me out of your door.”  He pressed for her reply relentlessly, his deep, rich voice—the irresistible voice she heard in her sweetest dreams—colored now with grief and desperate longing, “Cut me…cut me to the very quick…”

And then he was kneeling at her feet her, his tears potent enough to call forth a fresh batch of her own. “And if you will not do these things, my love…my dearest Virgilia…” he brought her clasped hands close, brushing his lips against them repeatedly, trembling with the fervor of his plea, “…then please…please…tell me there’s a chance you _can_ forgive me.”

Vicki leaned her head back, drawing in big gulps of air.  “Goddammit,” she cried out, “Goddammit all…god damn you, Benedict…and god damn _me_ for believing for even a moment that you were really mine.”  Brittle sobs rose from the center of her chest, her despair more intense and overwhelming than any she had ever experienced.  Yet she could not pull her hands from his, nor muster the strength or will to push him away.

Gradually Vicki’s sobs quieted as she came back to herself, though she shivered in the aftermath.  “Is that all,” she finally whispered, “Or was there more?”

Benedict moaned, then nodded his bowed head. “Truthfully, yes,” he conceded, “Morning came…I was still only half-awake, and she was…Viola was…”

“All over you?  That’s quite the cliché, Benedict.  Surely _you_ can give an excuse better than that.”  His shoulders sagged, as though he was surrendering, so that she instantly regretted the iciness of her retort.  Vicki pulled one hand from his, just to dry her cheeks, tempering her words more carefully, “I _had_ believed we were beyond clichés, yet here we are in the midst of the worst sort ever.”

He finally raised his eyes to hers, his remorse palpable.  “Is there even a _hope_ we can survive this?  

“You tell me.”  The misery on his face pierced her heart; she gentled her tone for a more patient reply, “Tell me, Ben.  How do things stand with her now?”

He exhaled hard and considered his answer.  “Without asking her directly, I can only assume she’s satisfied with the status quo.  Probably thinking we’ve turned a corner on our difficulties,” he supposed.

Vicki drew a deep breath, half afraid to ask, but needing to know, “And how do things stand with _you_?”

Benedict huffed softly, and smiled such sweet indulgence that Vicki felt weak with tenderness.  “Look at me, love.  Can’t you see that _you_ are all that I want?”  His voice was low, soothing, persuasive.  Utterly sincere.  “Say the word, and I’ll tell Viola _today_ that she and I are through.” He took back her other hand, to cradle both of hers in his, “My heart, my future—I leave them in _your_ hands, Virgilia.  And I will abide by whatever choice you make.”

She closed her eyes, the strength of all the love she felt for him the beginning of overcoming the pain of his betrayal.  “Oh, Ben,” she sighed at last, “You can’t do that to her now.  It would be worse than if you’d done it weeks ago.”

“I stay with her then, until _Shrew_ closes?  This…this is really want you want?”  Though he had left the decision to Vicki, she could nearly taste his disappointment.

“It’s not a matter of what _I_ want, Ben—but of what _has_ to be.”  Confident in her choice, she felt more calm and clear-eyed than she’d felt in days.  And remarkably, Vicki realized that she was already forgiving his dire transgression.  Her younger self—veteran of a half dozen tempestuous love affairs—would never have anticipated the woman she had become.  Become for the truest, soul-deep love that she had ever experienced.  Transfigured now, for the sake of this astounding, beautiful soul that she was certain was meant to be the mate of her own.  “We have professional obligations to consider.  People whose livelihoods will be affected should Viola walk out on the show.  What _we_ want _has_ to come second to our responsibilities.”

Sadly resigned, he accepted her verdict. “The show must go on then,” he observed regretfully, “In the end, it’s what we always do.”

“Always, my darling.”  Vicki leaned in to rest her forehead against his, “In art…in life…and most definitely in love.”


	16. If music be the food of love, play on...

_Love, I don't like to see so much pain_  
_So much wasted and this moment keeps slipping away_  
_I get so tired of working so hard for our survival_  
_I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive_

 _And all my instincts, they return_  
_And the grand facade, so soon will burn_  
_Without a noise, without my pride_  
_I reach out from the inside..._

( _In Your Eyes,_ Peter Gabriel)

* * *

 

A quiet rapping on the dressing room door came just as Ophelia had finished pinning up her sister’s hair.  “I’ve got it from here, Phe,” Vicki said, taking her wig from the younger woman’s hands, “Would you mind seeing who that is?”  It was still too soon for the call to places, leaving both sisters to wonder about the unexpected visitor in the hallway outside.

Hearing the rich rumble of his voice well before Phe ushered him into the room, Virgilia felt the pleasant flutter of delight that always hit her as Benedict drew near.  He had rarely visited her dressing room, part of their best efforts to be circumspect—so that she guessed he was taking advantage of Viola’s absence for the evening.  Still, they must be on good behavior, for very little actually escaped Phe’s notice.

Composing her expression to conceal her heart--for her sister’s sake--Vicki swiveled around on her stool to face him.  He was still dressed in street clothes, but instead of his usual polo shirt or well-worn cotton tee, and jeans, he took her breath away in a crisp, white, open necked dress shirt and her favorite blue suit.  Blue, the color she had told him--more than once—that seemed to have been invented with him in mind, it’s many permutations a constant compliment to his complexion, hair and eyes.  He always chuckled when she told him so, adopting that shy, sheepish look of his, acknowledging her flattery with nary a word, his smile the sunshine that sustained her on the cloudiest of days.  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, good Sir?” she teased, aiming for the lightest air to keep Phe off the scent.

“I wasn’t sure you knew,” he replied, coming to lean against the vanity, hands tucked in pockets, his every detail a picture of perfect nonchalance, “Viola’s out tonight, again.  Doctor thinks she’ll be fine come Monday, if she just rests up and keeps hydrated.”

“Well, she has been looking very peaky the past few days,” Vicki replied, not missing a beat; she was already aware of Viola’s absence, as Ben had texted her earlier, so that she guessed his update was just a cover for the true reason for his visit.  “Do give her my best, Ben—let her know she’s missed; Miranda is capable, but she just doesn’t bring the same sweetness to Bianca that Viola does.”

“Will do,” he averred, his eyes flitting quickly in Ophelia’s direction, before moving back to meet her own.

Vicki gave a little nod, his message received; she sighed hard and turned back to her sister, “Phe, would you be a dear and grab me a hot tea with lemon, from the green room?  My throat’s a bit scratchy; I don’t want to sound all croaky once the lights come up.”

“Sure.  How about you, Benedict? Can I get you anything?” 

He smiled genuinely in reply, “No, I’m, uh…I’m good, thanks.”  Vicki always noted a fondness whenever he addressed her sister; a fondness she could tell had never been for _her_ sake alone.

She was off her seat as soon as Phe had left the room, and Ben met her just as quickly.  The urge to kiss him soundly was nearly overwhelming—and she could see the echo of those thoughts clearly in his eyes.  She settled for taking his hand.  “What’s up? Is she really okay?”

He nodded, and squeezed her hand gently, “Other than not being able to keep anything down for a couple of days--and sheer exhaustion--she’s fine.  She’s underweight to begin with, so even a little loss hits her hard.”  His honest concern for his future ex was touching, and so in keeping with his nature, Vicki could only love him all the more for it.

“Well, I appreciate you keeping me apprised.” She bit her lip, continuing coyly, “But is that the _only_ reason you’ve dared a trip to my lair?”

“Don’t tempt me too hard, Virgilia,” he mock growled, his eyes flaring with passion, “I’d take you here and now, and with the door open wide, if you’d just say the word.  Six more weeks feels as much as a lifetime, you know!”

“I do, my love,” she answered, grateful his fervor hadn’t faded a bit, “It’s a constant ache for me.  Even my dreams are filled with longing for you.”

He held his breath, considering his response, and then leaned close, “Can you manage a clean get away after the show?  I have a surprise to share with you.” 

Though his beloved scent, so near now, was clouding her judgement, Vicki realized Phe would be returning soon, “Quickly, Ben—we’ve only minutes more.”

“Take a taxi to this address,” he instructed her, pressing a slip of paper into her free hand.  “Tell no one,” he urged her, “And if all goes as planned, we’ll have a wee bit of holiday together before the night is through.”  With that, he stepped back, and gave a Petruchio worthy bow, and sped away from her side, passing Phe in the hallway.

“What’s he on about,” Phe exclaimed, closing the door behind her, “He nearly bowled me over!”

Dazed and delighted, Vicki cupped his note protectively against her breast.  “I’ve no idea, Phe.  But he looked rather dashing, don’t you think,” she sighed dreamily (surely her thousandth such sigh over him), “as he dashed from the room!”

* * *

Eager to discover the surprise in store, Virgilia skipped stage door, slipping anonymously onto the sidewalk in front of the _Apollo Victoria_ , and hailed a cab for the trip over to the mystery address Benedict had given her.  As Saturday nights usually found cast and crew ending their work week carousing at a variety of nearby bars, she had begged off with Phe and other friends, claiming fatigue, and suggesting that she might have a touch of what ailed Viola.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Vicki was standing in front of the stout walnut door of the _Golden Lion_.  A neatly hand lettered sign hung on the stained glass window set in the door, the message clear:  “Closed for Private Party” and below that, in smaller letters, “Please visit us another time!”  Guessing that the note wasn’t meant for her, she tugged the door open and passed inside.

The lighting inside the entrance was dim—as though the pub was actually set to close for the night—and no one was in sight.  Three steps down brought her onto the pub floor, filled with empty booths and tables, half of which had chairs upended upon them.  A lone waitress was quietly bussing the detritus of the evening’s revels away.   Benedict stood at the bar, his back turned to her as he leaned in to speak with the barkeep. Vicki watched him a moment, appreciating the strong breadth of his shoulders, and the tantalizing way the material of his bespoke jacket sculpted his back, from the subtle flex of his toned muscles to the shallow, perfect dip between his shoulder blades. The sight of him—and the knowledge that he was unaware she stood admiring him—filled her with a longing that ached to her core…and an astonished gratitude, that his heart was pledged to hers.  Never had the urge to touch, to kiss, to explore, the details of a man’s physique, possessed her so.  She could only stand silently and tell herself to breathe, breathe, _breathe_ , gradually overcoming the heavenly weakness he stirred within her.

Finally composed, Vicki cleared her throat to catch his attention.  He turned to her, grinning, and gave a low whistle.  She advanced a few steps, putting a little extra sway in her hips, her eyes widened in feigned innocence, “So…what does a girl need to do to get a drink around here?”  She let her cashmere wrap fall from her shoulders, playing the moment for all it was worth.

Benedict shook his head, warm appraisal clear in his extraordinary eyes.  “Wow.  You look…,” he exhaled slowly, gently patting his chest above his heart, “…stunning.  Gorgeous.  Breathtaking.”

Vicki had hoped for such a reaction; over the course of long runs such as _Shrew_ , she had taken to keeping a small selection from her personal wardrobe in her dressing room, for any events or last minute engagements that might require her attendance.  This night—after seeing that Benedict was less casually dressed--she had chosen an outfit he’d never seen her in; a low cut, softly pleated, aubergine colored, chiffon dress with a plunging back, cap sleeves and a flowing hemline that fluttered as she walked.  It flattered her curves beyond anything else she owned, and always made her feel supremely feminine and beautiful.

“So do you, Ben,” she said, as he closed the space between them, “Like the sweetest of dreams.”

He pitched his reply low, for her ears alone, “You’re the dream, love.  The only dream I’ll ever want.”  He took her hand, “C’mere, please.”  He led her to the bar.

As if on cue, the bartender popped the cork on a bottle of Bollinger’s finest and filled two champagne flutes, before retreating silently to a set of double doors near the far end of the bar, disappearing into—what Vicki presumed—was the kitchen.

“How private _is_ this private party?” she asked, glancing pointedly at the champagne glasses. 

“Very, very,” Benedict revealed, “A party for two.”  He took both of her hands, and drew her comfortably close, “The place is ours for the next half hour or so.”

“But…how…why…” she wondered aloud, as pleased as she was surprised by his ingenuity and daring.

The light in his eyes and in his smile reflected pure joy—not only for the opportunity for this brief span of time alone with her, away from watchful eyes—but for her growing delight at this unexpected gift.  “Well, I thought we needed this…and not _just_ needed it—we deserve it.  Don’t you think so?”                      

Vicki nodded vigorously, smiling softly before she moved into him, rose up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.  “Yes, my love.  My dear, sweet Ben,” she whispered in his ear, then backed away enough to see his face.

“I couldn’t waste this opportunity, as brief as it is,” he told her, handing her a champagne flute.  “The wait has been rough at times, but the end is finally in sight.”

“The end,” she echoed, before reminding him, “And the beginning.”

Benedict clinked his glass against hers, “To our beginning, then.”  Two deep swallows, and he had downed his drink.  Vicki sipped it slowly, enjoying the layers of fruity notes, and the tickle of the bubbles on her tongue.

 When she’d finished, he took her glass, and set it on the bar next to his.  “You once said that you wanted to dance, Virgilia; and that you thought you shouldn’t have to dance alone.  I wish _I_ had danced with you that night…”

“Oh, Ben…”  She wanted to tell him he needn’t dwell upon that night, nor upon the mistakes they both had made.

“…and _every_ night since,” he continued earnestly, “So I want to promise you countless dances to come—starting with our first, tonight.”  Benedict held out his hand to her and she took it gladly.  “I think we’ve got time for a few trips across the dance floor,” he added, as he led her forward “if you don’t mind indulging me.”

Like magic, the already dimmed overhead lights faded to near dark, leaving only the dance space illuminated, in a soft, warm ambiance.  Vicki wondered, fleetingly, who was at the controls, then swiftly decided it didn’t matter; her faith in Benedict’s discretion remained unquestioning.  The first strains of _Lady in Red_ floated out of the speakers on the small, empty stage, as he brought her to the center of the floor.  Voice husky with emotion, he told her, “I hope you like my playlist; it’s short, but…rather meaningful.”

Vicki fetched a wistful sigh, gazing up at his face, nearly overwhelmed with happiness at his thoughtfulness, and her heart swelling with the purest love she’d ever felt for anyone.  “It’s alright then?” he asked, the crooked, quirky smile that she adored weakening her that final bit more.

“It’s perfect, Ben.  Absolutely perfect,” she assured him, “What woman could want any more than this?”  She slid her arms around his neck, while Benedict pulled her to him by the waist, and they began to sway in time to the music.  How blissful it felt to surrender to his lead; to feel his elegant hands guiding her along; how easy it was to trust him in this, as in all things now.  Vicki knew, if allowed, she would cling to him forever.

By the end of the song, he had rested his lips against her forehead, so that she felt his smile as the next number began.  She recognized it right away, understanding that it spoke his heart even before he had begun to sing along with the chorus, his voice simple, unfiltered, and rich with the truth of it.  The upbeat urged him to spin her about, and though they moved unchoreographed, they read each other well enough to anticipate where the dance would take them.   

“ _In your eyes_ …” he crooned, twirling her out to the end of his arm repeatedly, never fully letting go; then pulling her back into him, until she was breathless and a little dizzy.

  
“… _The light, the heat--_  
_In your eyes, I am complete_  
_In your eyes_  
_I see the doorway to a thousand churches_  
_In your eyes_  
_The resolution of all the fruitless searches_  
_In your eyes_  
_I see the light and the heat_  
_In your eyes_  
_Oh, I want to be that complete_  
_I want to touch the light, the heat I see in your eyes…_ ”

 

As the song drew to its close, Benedict ended the dance by pulling her flush against him.  With her body pressed tightly against his chest, Vicki felt no desire for release; the warmth of his strong, sure hands against the bare skin of her back— _no, call it_ _heat_ , she thought, _just as in the song; heat searing me with_ _the_ _need for more_ —she felt she could drown in his arms, and die a happy woman if she did.  “You’re spoiling me, you know,” she murmured, head tilted back as she offered him her lips.

“Then I’m doing it right,” he grinned, letting his lips hover over hers in a heavenly tease, before kissing her quietly, gently, nearly innocently--perhaps being mindful of the witness or two that remained, to their tryst.  Vicki would let him deepen the kiss if he only he willed it; she would give him her soul if he asked.

Instead he broke from her lips, returned to give a final soft brush upon them, and then asked if she’d like more champagne.

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, distracted and dreamy, watching him dash to the bar to refill their glasses, and then return to her side.  This time she finished first, only realizing how thirsty their lively dance had left her, when she raised the glass to her lips.  Once they were done, Benedict set the empty champagne flutes on the lip of the small stage.  “I hope you’re ready for more,” he challenged her, looking sly and a little naughty.

Vicki stood her ground, holding out her arms to him, coyly answering, “I plan to match you step for step, Ben.  So please-- _do_ bring it on.”

He nodded, and with a flourish, snapped his fingers--signaling for the music to begin again--and then rejoined her on the dance floor.  A slower beat this time, and another unrepentant love song— _All of Me_.  Another sweet arrow, piercing her heart, moving her into his arms, reminding her how thoroughly she belonged to him.  Vicki closed her eyes and laid her head against his chest, feeling warm and safe and truly loved, relishing what had to be the final moments of their blissful rendezvous—and filling her senses with pure Benedict, hoping it would be enough to get her through the lonely wait that would begin again, once she left the confines of the _Golden Lion_.

Their dance—as the last, too brief, tune began--had narrowed to the smallest circle possible, and as it neared its end they were merely swaying in place.  Anticipating the parting to come, Vicki was willing herself not to cry, for she would not reward him for this stolen idyll with a show of weakness.  As always, he seemed to read her mind, and answered her silent need with a soothing assurance.  “Sometimes I picture you in my mind, as I try to fall asleep at night,” he confessed, his smooth, velvet voice connecting intimately with her yearning heart, “I see your profile as we stood on your balcony, as you gazed out at the lights.  I know now that _that_ was the moment that I couldn’t deny how I felt anymore.  That I knew my life with Viola was set to fail…”

Benedict trailed off, as the music swelled, listening to the soulful, bluesy voice sing the simple refrain which reflected his own heart.  “ _You’re everything I hoped for…you’re everything I need…you are so_ _beautiful…to…me…_ ”

Loathe to break the spell and come back to reality--let alone withdraw from their embrace--Vicki _mmmm’d_ softly as the song faded to its end.  “Are we done so soon?” she murmured, holding onto him all the tighter, fully enmeshed in the cocoon he had created for them.  She raised her face to look up at him, “I don’t want it to end.  Not now…not ever.”

Benedict kissed her brow, then leaned his forehead against hers.  “I know, honey.  Neither do I.”  He slid his hands to cup her face, weaving his fingertips into her hair.  “But it’s just for a little while longer, love.”

She ran her hands beneath the lapels of his jacket, loving even the feel of the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.  “I wish I had your faith, Ben.  But sometimes—in the quiet of my…,” Vicki closed her eyes, reliving in brief her dark hours of doubt; her voice wavered a moment, though she didn’t let it break, “…my solitary nights--I fear we’re fooling ourselves.  That what we have is just a sweet mirage that will evaporate in the harsh light of reality.”

Confident of their future together, Benedict was tender in reply.  “No, my dear.  _This_ is our reality.  And tonight is just a taste of what life holds ahead for us.”

Vicki shrugged demurely, silently conceding to the hope he offered.  Before she could reply, the dimmed lights of the pub grew a bit brighter, surely the signal that their private little party was over.  Benedict closed his eyes and sighed, before nodding in resignation; his small smile was bittersweet and so beautiful that she had to smile as well.

“I should call for a cab,” she said, at last.

Still holding her close, he tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger there, “I’ve got my car—I’ll take you home.”

Vicki’s turn to sigh…and be the sensible one between them.  She shook her head, clear-eyed and certain, “I’ll take a cab, my darling.  If you were to drive me, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from inviting you up…”  He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued on, “And _you_ wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from accepting my invitation.”  She sighed ruefully, smiling up at him nevertheless, “And we…well, it’s no stretch of the imagination to realize how weak we’d be.”

He huffed a disappointed little chuckle, skimming his thumb across her cheek, enough to make her melt and wish she could forgo prudence for once.  “My wise and lovely Virgilia—you know me all too well.”  He dared a deeper kiss as consolation, which left her breathless once again.

And so it was, a quarter hour later, Benedict handed her into the taxi cab, ducking his head in for a final goodnight, thanking her for the dance and wishing her sweet dreams.  He remained on the sidewalk as the cab pulled away, a single hand raised in farewell, the other pressed over his heart.  Vicki kept him in her sight until distance and darkness faded him from view.  She finally let fall her tears, a mix of unspeakable happiness for the blessing of his love, and a bone-deep aching for November to arrive.  Breaking her steadfast rule, she texted him before she exited the car.  “ _If my heart had voice to sing, you would hear it ‘cross the many streets between us._ ‘O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful!’”; she paused a moment, then followed with, “ _Thus does my heart sing for thee._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re curious, dear Reader, here’s Benedict’s playlist:  
> “Lady in Red” – Chris de Burgh  
> “In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel  
> “All of Me” – John Legend  
> "You Are So Beautiful" – Joe Cocker
> 
> Virgilia quotes from Shakespeare’s “As You Like It” in her text on her journey home.


End file.
